


The Cost of a Wish

by slashscribe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-02-08 14:47:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 102,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1945158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashscribe/pseuds/slashscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has been plagued by a secret his entire life that has made him feel hopeless until he meets a mysterious, seemingly omniscient man named Sherlock Holmes who owns a wish-granting shop.  Their meeting sets off a series of inevitable events that will change the course of both of their lives forever.</p><p>This story involves magic, ghosts, eventual johnlock, and cameos by some of our favorite characters in unsuspecting places.</p><p>Also, this is a fusion with xxxHOLiC, which very few people know of, but don't let that scare you away - you don't need to know a single thing about it to enjoy this story.  I've just borrowed some plot elements to make a Sherlock fusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for a while, and I'm very excited to post it! It's my first time writing an AU in any fandom, so I'd love to hear your thoughts on it! :)
> 
> Also, special thanks to kesterpan for the read-through and encouragement as usual, and weighted-orange for the beta!

With an increasing sense of urgency, John starts to walk faster down the busy London street, his footsteps growing louder and louder amongst fragments of conversations he can’t help but overhear – _oh my God, a lawyer? Go on a second date!...did you hear about the boy who went missing from the park?…petrol prices are just out of control, aren’t they?_ – and the voices start to whirr and buzz around him, blending into a high pitched and indistinct noise that’s battling with the frantic beating of his heart, pervasive and loud in his ears.

 

It has been this way since he was a boy, this feeling of pure terror as a cloud of darkness trails behind him. A cloud of meaningless voices and teeth and eyes, formless spirits and ghosts that it seems only he can see, is familiar and ever-present in his life. They’re descending upon him now, the same as they always do when he goes outside - something he rarely does.

 

They’re freezing cold against his back as they get closer and closer to him. Even in the muggy warmth of July, the cold is far from pleasant. He swallows hard as he steps forward, and a sweat breaks out on his already clammy skin as he feels one of them make contact with his back, a solid presence despite its form, which appears to be made of something akin to thick smoke. He dares a glance over his shoulder as he staggers forward and he sees a large eye staring back at him on top of a mouth full of sharp, pointed teeth, solid amongst its foggy body. He’s not sure what would happen if those teeth manage to grab hold of him, and his body is shaking as the mass of spirits comes closer to join the one already attached to him. He’s not willing to find out.

 

He snaps his head forward and starts to run in earnest, but the spirits behind him just become more determined. They press in on him, knocking into him so hard that he stumbles over his own feet, falling flat on his stomach. The people around him are giving him a wide berth, but he is far too terrified to care what they must think as they see him running from what appears to be nothing. His entire body is cold now, and the spirits are pulling at him, trying to tug his body backwards into their mass, and in desperation, he throws an arm out, frantic to grab onto something, to pull himself away from their icy grip.

 

But then, his hand comes in contact with a piece of strong, flat wood, and the pressure on his back instantly disappears. He freezes and holds his breath for a moment. His senses are acutely aware of everything around him from the receipt drifting in the wind and scratching against the ground beside him, to the rough sidewalk beneath his flesh, to the sounds of footsteps and traffic and idle chatter, to the scent of coffee brewing nearby, but the cold feeling of the spirits’ presence is definitely missing. It’s absent from reality even though he can still feel the after-effects echoing down to his very bones. He wonders if he’s imagining the sudden absence of the cluster of spirits that had _just been_ on his back, and so he slowly turns his head to check, afraid of what he’ll see, his body quivering - but there is nothing behind him.

 

He releases the shaky breath he’s been holding and closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in and out and trying to regain some control, and then he turns to look at what he’s touching, his heart still pounding in his chest, his breath coming in gasps despite his efforts to control it. It’s a door he can just reach from where he’s lying on the ground, a black door atop two shallow steps. He takes his hand off the door and flexes it experimentally, looking at it for any clues as to what just happened, but it doesn’t seem any different than it was before it touched the door. Pressing his hands into the rough texture of the sidewalk, he pushes himself up and stands, swaying for a moment as he gets his bearings, and looks around. The street isn’t that busy, but those who are on it are studiously ignoring him. He doesn't mind; the spirits have left, and that’s fine with him. In fact, that’s better than fine.

 

He looks again at the door he touched, and sees that it’s an apartment he’s never noticed before, though it’s not his first time on Baker Street. “221B” gleams in gold on the front of the door, and he looks up at the building with a frown.

 

Suddenly, seemingly of their own volition, his feet go up the two small steps to the door, and it’s strange, the way his body is pulling him towards this building. His brow furrows in confusion and his mind is shouting to go away, go away, go _away_ , but something overtakes his muscles and his arm reaches out. Before he can think about it, his hand is gripping the cool metal of the doorknob, even though he’s trying as hard as he can to turn away.

 

He’s just about to turn the knob when suddenly, the door swings open on its own, and his arm falls uselessly to his side in his surprise. An old woman is standing there, wearing an apron and smiling kindly. “Hello, dear,” she says, her eyes crinkling in the corners as she smiles. “You must be a customer for Sherlock. Come on in, then.”

 

“Oh, no,” John says. “I’m not –“

 

But then, he blinks in confusion, because somehow, he’s entered the building, even though he’s made no conscious decision to do so.

 

“It’s alright, dear, he’s just up here,” the woman says, gesturing towards a closed door at the top of a set of stairs. She smells of tea and scones, and she hasn’t stopped smiling since she opened the door. She seems kind, but John feels distinctly unsettled.

 

“No, this is bloody mad,” he says, but he’s following her up the stairs nonetheless. He feels panicky again, a few beads of sweat forming at his temples. Why are his legs moving? “I’ve no idea why I’m here, I should go-”

 

“Inevitable,” a deep voice rumbles from behind the door at the top of the stairs.

 

John stops on the stairs in surprise, and the woman rolls her eyes as she gets to the top before him and opens the door. “Honestly, Sherlock, you should wait until the door is open to speak,” she chides to whoever is on the other side of the door, her posture changing to that of a stern mother before she turns back to John, whose body is catching up to her without his permission. She smiles kindly again, and John is a bit taken aback by the sudden change in her demeanor.

 

“In you go, then,” she says, holding the door open and gesturing John inside.

 

Again, something seems to come over John’s body, and he finds his feet crossing the threshold even though he’s made no decision to do so. As soon as he enters the room, he’s overtaken by a sweet, smoky smell, and though there’s a lot to take in – _books everywhere, Victorian décor, chemistry sets_ – his eyes are immediately drawn to the couch, or more specifically, the man draped upon it.

 

The man is sprawled out on the couch, wearing nothing but some loose satin trousers and a dressing gown of the same material. He’s smoking a long, elegant pipe, the likes of which John has never seen; it’s at least 20 centimeters long, with engravings along its narrow shaft and a small opening at the end. The man’s gown, tied haphazardly at his waist, is open to reveal most of his chest, the collar so loose that it’s settled just below his shoulders rather than his neck, revealing smooth, milky white skin. His legs extend from the confines of the gown to rest on the armrest, while the sharp angles of his peculiar face rest against an elaborate, tasseled pillow at the other end of the couch. His head is turned towards the door, though his body faces the ceiling, and he draws his pipe away from his mouth and slowly blows out a thin stream of smoke as he lazily regards John from beneath half-closed, hooded eyes.

 

John can’t help but think that this man looks debauched, smoking his long pipe, an array of black curls forming a halo around the bored expression on his face. John feels as though he’s intruding on something he’s not meant to see, but his body isn’t moving from where he stands, rooted just inside the open door.

 

“Hello,” the man says. His voice is deep and silky, and the word is stretched, drifting into the atmosphere between them like the sweet smoke coming from his pipe.

 

John just stares for a moment. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, unsure how to proceed. “Right, hello,” he finally says. “Listen, I haven’t meant to come in here, so I’ll just go,” he adds, though his feet aren’t moving and something about this flat and this man are making it hard to think of being anywhere else.

 

The man regards him for a moment, then speaks. “It’s inevitable,” he repeats, his voice unexpectedly sharp. His eyes narrow on John as he sets his pipe down on a table near the couch, and then he sits up in one quick movement, his previously indolent body suddenly pulsing with energy. He shifts with a rustle of his dressing gown and then he’s situated in the center of the couch, leaning forward, elbows on his knees and hands pressed together like he’s praying, leaning his head against the tip of his index fingers. He’s staring straight at John with an intensity John is not accustomed to. “Also, the door is a barrier.”

 

“A ba-what?” John says, brow furrowing for a moment as he tries to make sense of both the man before him and his words. He shifts a bit where he stands, eager to end the man’s scrutiny, but the man’s intense gaze doesn’t waver.

 

“You have something to inquire about,” the man says. His eyes are sharp, focusing in on John’s own like lasers.

 

“No,” John replies, shaking his head. “I haven’t even meant to come in here,” he says. “I’ll just go.”

 

He turns to leave, and this time, like a flood of sensation, his body feels like his own again, and he’s in complete control. He’s taken one step towards the doorway when the man’s deep voice interrupts him.

 

“Please take that object out of your pocket,” he says.

 

There’s no urgency in his voice, but something about the way he says the carefully enunciated words sounds like any alternative action would be dangerous. John’s heart is pounding in his ears and there is something about this entire situation that is making the blood in his veins sing. He feels alive and curious and somehow _hopeful_ , and he hasn’t felt this way in as long as he can remember, so he turns around and regards the strange man again.

 

“Oh, come on, we haven’t got all _day,”_ the man says impatiently, a sharp edge creeping into his voice, gesturing with one hand for John to hurry.

 

Compared to the surge of spirits and ghosts he knows he’ll face if he leaves, he thinks indulging in this strange man’s conversation seems favorable, and so he takes a step forward as he puts his hand in his pocket, fingers curling around the cold metal of the dog tags that lie inside.

 

He steps forward again, his footsteps echoing through the quiet of the flat, the only other sounds those of the old woman in the kitchen making tea.

 

The man stretches his long arm out, his palm up, fingertips stretched towards John expectantly. John holds his closed fist over the man’s palm, the metal chain of the dog tags slipping between his fingers and brushing over the man’s flesh, though the tags themselves remain in his fist. He feels, somehow, that letting them go is significant, and he hesitates for just a moment before he opens his hand, the small bundle dropping into the man’s palm with a tinkling sound of metal.

 

The man immediately pulls them toward himself and adjusts them so he can read them clearly. After a moment, he stops his scrutiny of the dog tags and looks up at John. John is taken aback by the intensity of the man’s stare, and when the man gestures towards an armchair, John sits heavily.

 

“Tell me your name,” the man says.

 

“John Watson,” John says. “Surely you can read?” he adds, gesturing towards the dog tags.

 

The man leans back, closing his fist around the dog tags. John watches, feeling a strange helplessness as the metal cords slip between the man’s fingers, the dog tags suddenly far out of reach.

 

“Surely you can’t mistake me for an idiot,” the man says with a raised eyebrow. “These aren’t yours. But what a surprise you are, so willing to tell your name to a complete stranger.”

 

John blinks, taken aback. “How do you –“

 

“Clearly, you’ve just returned from military service in Afghanistan. Haircut, posture, tan lines – it’s _obvious_ ,” the man says. “Equally obvious is the age of these dog tags, though you’ve unmistakably done your best to keep them in good condition. They’re over forty years old, but not military issue. Judging by the care you’ve given them, I’d guess they belonged to your father, with the same name as you, but whom you’ve never met, or you wouldn’t treat them so reverently. But more importantly, tell me, John H. Watson, what is your birthday?”

 

“That was amazing,” John says, in spite of how strange the whole situation is, and then he realizes he’s meant to answer a question. “Er, my birthday is the thirty-first of March,” he adds. “Why?”

 

“Same as your father,” the man murmurs, picking up his forgotten pipe with his free hand and taking another long pull. He lets the smoke out lazily again before turning to John with a sharp expression. “And giving your name and birthdate away so quickly is _quite_ inadvisable, especially to enemies. Your name is the path to your soul. Your birthday is the path to your past and future.”

 

“Are you my enemy?” John asks. It’s the only aspect of the strange statement his brain is willing to focus on at the moment. He’s not sure what kind of answer to expect.

 

“No, not as such,” the man says. “But I’m most certainly a stranger, aren’t I? After all, you don’t even know my name.”

 

“Right,” John says. “But really, I should go –“

 

“It’s Sherlock,” the man interrupts. “Sherlock Holmes. And in the kitchen is Mrs. Hudson.”

 

“Er, right, nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes, but I really should be going,” he says. He pushes against the arms of his chair and stands.

 

The old woman, Mrs. Hudson, scurries out of the kitchen bearing a tray with two cups of tea on top. “Oh, you’re going?” she asks. She sounds considerably sadder than the situation warrants, and it makes John pause for a moment. He spares her a glance before turning back to the man, Sherlock.

 

“Right, yes, sorry for intruding on you, I’ll just take my dog tags and leave, then,” he says, crossing the short distance between them and holding his hand out towards Sherlock expectantly.

 

Behind him, the door to the stairwell suddenly closes even though no one is near enough to touch it, and he turns towards it in surprise, the hair on his arms rising as goose pimples break out on his flesh.

 

“I told you before, didn’t I?” Sherlock asks. John slowly turns back at the sound of his voice. Sherlock is sitting with his hands in a parody of a prayer in front of his face again, scrutinizing John intensely. “It’s inevitable. There is no such thing as coincidence in this world, John. There is only the inevitable.”

 

John’s pulse hasn’t stopped racing since he entered this flat, and his hand, the same hand that had felt the calm of the door to this strange place only moments and yet lifetimes earlier, twitches at his side. He blinks rapidly, staring at Sherlock in confusion.

 

“That’s certainly not the face of belief,” Sherlock says. He looks amused, if the slightly raised eyebrow is anything to go by. “John H. Watson,” he repeats. “And what does the H stand for?” he asks.

 

“Wouldn’t it be foolish of me to tell you?” John asks, his voice weaker than he’d intended it to be. This whole situation feels out of his control and he feels off balance, unsure of the man in front of him, and yet unwilling and unable to leave.

 

Sherlock smiles. “You’re certainly a quick learner,” he says, and John can’t help but think that a word of approval from this man is heavy, important. “But as I’ve told you, I’m not your enemy.”

 

“Hamish,” John says.

 

Sherlock smiles again, wider this time. “John Hamish Watson,” he says. He closes his eyes and takes another drag of his pipe. “John Hamish Watson. The place in which you were born is worlds apart from the place in which you live now. But more importantly, you have a problem. A _secret_ , one which has been bothering you since you were young. One pertaining to your family lineage. One pertaining to the _occult_.” He pronounces the “t” sharply, and it seems to echo in the flat, now silent. Mrs. Hudson stands quietly and almost timidly in the corner as she watches the interaction with a hint of trepidation.

 

John is frozen, his eyes wide as he stares at the man in front of him, his heart hammering. This whole encounter has been odd, but he’s not sure how this complete stranger in front of him can _know_ – and yet, he seems to, and John’s breath is shallow as he stares, enraptured, at the man before him.

 

“You,” Sherlock says, narrowing his eyes and pressing his fingertips closer to his chin. “You can see spirits and ghosts. They follow you; they never leave you alone. They’ve done so since you were a child. But that’s because of the blood in your veins, John Watson. It draws them to you.”

 

Mrs. Hudson is still silent, holding her tea tray as she watches, and John feels trapped under Sherlock’s gaze. “Why?” he asks.

 

“You have a birthmark, don’t you?” Sherlock asks. Immediately, John’s left hand closes over his right wrist where the birthmark indeed lies. “Seven dots. A row of three followed immediately by a row of 1. Thirty-one. Then, a row of three. March. Your birthday is visibly linked to the body in which you reside. And your name, John H. Watson, carried around your neck, first from your father’s tags since you were a child, and then with your own since you entered the Army, hanging against your chest even now as we speak. But don’t worry; removing them won’t help at this point. The gate has been opened.”

 

“That – that’s all?” John asks after a moment, his brain still processing what Sherlock has said. “That’s why?”

 

“That’s why,” Sherlock repeats. “Having said that, I’ll be keeping these,” he says, shaking the dog tags and smiling at John.

 

“You – what? Those are _mine_!” John says. “You can’t just – “

 

“Payment,” Sherlock says, leaning forward and tilting his head up towards John. “I’ve given you something, and so something of equivalent value is necessary as payment. Too much or too little won’t do, John, or there will be grave consequences.”

 

“Consequences?” John asks, clenching his fists at his side to avoid punching this man in the face.

 

“Consequences,” Sherlock repeats. He stands, at least a full head taller than John, his eyes narrowing, and he taps the side of John’s jaw with the index finger of his free hand, his finger just barely ghosting John’s skin but making John nonetheless swallow hard, feeling trapped. “Grave injury,” Sherlock adds, voice low.

 

“To what?” John asks defiantly. He’s trying to ignore the way the air seems to shift around them as Sherlock’s finger rests against his jaw, but he finds it difficult.

 

“To the balance of this world,” Sherlock murmurs.

 

John blinks, feeling like he’s somehow caught in a spell, and in that moment everything registers – the icy grey of Sherlock’s eyes, the milky white of his skin, the feeling of his long finger against John’s own cheek, the sounds of their breaths in the small space between them – and he steps back suddenly, snapping back into his own mind as Sherlock’s finger falls to his side. “But I haven’t received anything! I haven’t asked you for anything!” he says, anger clouding his thoughts. “You’ve just taken!”

 

Sherlock smiles, sitting down with a flounce of his dressing gown. “Mrs. Hudson, please put this away,” he says, holding his hand out to the old woman. She steps forward and sets the tray down on the side table, then takes the dog tags from Sherlock.

 

“Just this once, dear, I’m not your housekeeper,” she chastises, disappearing down the hall and closing a door before John can even think of chasing after her.

 

“You-“ John begins, anger simmering at the surface. He’s clenching and unclenching his hand at his side, but Sherlock seems impervious to his anger. “You – what _is_ this place?” John asks.

 

Sherlock smiles. “My shop,” he says.

 

“Shop?” John repeats, looking around again. All he sees is a mess; a living room full of extravagant pillows and chairs, books and papers on every available surface, the air thick with smoke and dust, a kitchen with a chemistry set upon the table and various bowls and measuring tools strewn haphazardly about. It doesn’t look like a shop at all; there’s certainly nothing worth selling inside of it.

 

“Shop,” Sherlock confirms. “A wish-granting shop,” he adds.

 

Mrs. Hudson comes back down the hall, smiling warmly. “A wish-granting shop,” she repeats, taking one cup of tea off the tray and handing it to Sherlock.   “As long as it’s something Sherlock can do, he’ll grant the wish. Do sit down, dear, your tea will get cold,” she says to John, gesturing towards the chair he’d sat in a few moments before. Even though he’s not sure he wants to stay, John sits again, inexplicably drawn to this strange situation, and he takes the tea she hands him. She smiles and pats his shoulder, but it doesn’t do anything to make him feel more comfortable.

 

“A wish-granting shop,” John says. “That’s just…mad.”

 

“So says the man who sees ghosts and spirits,” Sherlock says.

 

Despite the situation, John can’t help but chuckle, and Sherlock’s mouth curls upward on one side. “Right,” John says after a moment. “A wish-granting shop.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. “So glad you’ve managed to keep up now that we’ve all repeated the same phrase numerous times. I grant wishes. And in exchange, I take payment. Not money, of course. Money is boring. Souls.”

 

John’s brows rise up, nearly to his hairline, and he almost spits out his tea, but instead, he chokes. He coughs for a moment and then hurriedly sips again to clear his throat. “Er – _souls_?”

 

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes and reaching for his tea. “I don’t mean _actual_ souls. I’m not going to kill you. The price for that is far too high; not at all worth paying if you understand what it is. Taking a life unnecessarily is far too heavy. I simply mean something precious to the person whose wish I have granted. The soul of the wish, if you will. Now, shall we grant your wish, John?”

 

There are so many strange things happening in this conversation that John doesn’t even have time to dwell on them. Instead, he focuses on the question asked directly of him. “I don’t have a wish,” he says.

 

“Oh, but don’t you?” Sherlock asks. He’s smiling again, regarding John with a knowing look that sends a shiver down John’s spine. “You wouldn’t be here if that were true.”

 

“I don’t,” John insists.

 

When Sherlock replies, his voice is low and silky. “You’re thinking it would be nice not to see them, aren’t you? If they weren’t drawn to you?”

 

John freezes. His heart skips a beat in his chest and his mind begins to race. Of course he’s wished that his entire life, every moment since he was a child, every time someone told him he was crazy, or he had to run and run and _run_ to get away from them. But it has never been an option, never been a _real_ option, anyway, because he’s never even found anyone who thought ghosts and spirits were real, let alone someone willing or able to help him.

 

“You-“ he stammers, not willing to give in to the small hope that was flaring in his chest.

 

“I can do that,” Sherlock says. His voice is soft but confident, and John swallows, suddenly overwhelmed and not sure how to handle the situation.

 

“You – really?” John asks. It’s strange; he doesn’t think he should trust this man, and yet, something inside of him says it’s okay, and he’s not sure what to do.

 

Mrs. Hudson stands next to him and puts her hand on his shoulder. “When Sherlock says he can do it, he can do it,” she says, squeezing his shoulder. She sounds confident and proud.

 

“Really?” John repeats, staring intently at Sherlock.

 

“It’s quite inconvenient, isn’t it? Seeing them,” Sherlock says in lieu of an answer.

 

“It’s…a lot of the time, when I see them, I think how nice it would be if they would just leave me alone,” John admits.

 

“That’s your wish,” Sherlock says, sitting up straight, speaking sharply. “Isn’t it?”

 

John frowns for a moment, feeling somehow like his next words are important, and he considers them carefully. When he thinks of how confined his life is, how he can barely leave his home, how everything is so dull and he’s constantly chased by things most of the world doesn’t even believe exist, and then he thinks of how _alive_ he feels in this strange flat with this strange old woman and even stranger man, he finds himself nodding, even though it seems like a bad idea to make a deal with Sherlock. “Yes.”

 

Sherlock smiles, an almost eerie smile, but a smile nonetheless, and nods. “Then I will grant your wish,” he says. “Now, about payment.”

 

“Payment?” John asks. He feels like his brain is suffering whiplash from this bizarre conversation, going from topic to topic without sufficiently understanding each one. “I haven’t got any money –“

 

“Of course not,” Sherlock says. “Not on your pension. But as I’ve told you, money is boring.”

 

“Then what – wait, how do you know about my pension?”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Your pension is _obvious,_ John. More importantly, I need an assistant. Work here, in my shop,” Sherlock says.

 

John frowns. “What about my dog tags? Aren’t those payment?”

 

Sherlock smiles. “That was that, this is this,” he says flippantly, waving a hand and reaching for his pipe. Mrs. Hudson smiles.

 

“What – that doesn’t even make _sense_!” John protests.

 

“Perhaps not to _you_ ,” Sherlock says, taking a long drag of his pipe. “But nonetheless, it’s the truth. Now, work for me, and when your work counterbalances your wish, I’ll grant it.”

 

“When is that?” John asks.

 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says. “I need more data.”

 

“Data?” John asks, jaw falling open a little bit. “ _Data_? What does that even mean?”

 

“Many things,” Sherlock replies. “In this case, exactly how strong is your gateway to the spirits? Exactly how hard will you work?”

 

John scrubs a hand over his face. He feels like he has signed a contract with the devil.

 

“Anyway, perhaps we should have a small party, don’t you think, Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock asks, turning towards Mrs. Hudson.

 

“Oh, that sounds lovely, dear. A nice dinner with you boys would be wonderful,” she says.

 

“A party,” John repeats flatly.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “Your first task as an employee of this shop. Why don’t you run to the store and get some things to put on for dinner? And some wine, surely this calls for a nice bottle of wine.”

 

“Some wine would be lovely,” Mrs. Hudson agrees.

 

John stares for a moment at each of them in turn, and then finds himself resignedly finishing his tea and standing up. “Right,” he says. “The shops. You want me to go to the shops so we can have a party. Sure.”

 

“He seems excited,” Mrs. Hudson remarks with a wink at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock snorts. “Quite,” he agrees.

 

“I don’t think _excited_ is the word I’d use,” John says. He’s not sure why he’s agreeing to this. This is _mad_. He doesn’t even know these people, and now he’s going to go to the shops for them and make dinner? He can’t understand why he’s doing this.

 

But, of course, there’s the little part of him that’s whispering in his mind that this could be his _chance_ , this could be _it_ , and he doesn’t want to hope, really he doesn’t, but he can’t help it.

 

“Ah,” Sherlock says suddenly. “I believe there is one more guest who should attend our party. John, why don’t you go and get him? He’s down in the warehouse.”

 

“Warehouse?” John asks. “You have a _warehouse_? Of _what_?”

 

“Treasure,” Sherlock says. “Do be careful; some of it’s dangerous. Mrs. Hudson, can you bring him down?”

 

“Of course, dear, I was just going downstairs, anyway,” she says. John can’t help but think she’s rather agreeable. But then, isn’t he, as well?

 

John gives Sherlock a scrutinizing look to which Sherlock merely raises one eyebrow. This is absolutely one of the strangest situations John’s ever been in, but he knows he has nothing to lose at this point, so he shakes his head and follows Mrs. Hudson out the door of the flat and down the stairs.

 

“It’s down here,” she says. She doesn’t leave the building, but instead, goes down a hallway. She gestures towards a door that says “221A.” “That’s my apartment,” she explains, “And 221C is the basement apartment. Sherlock uses it as his warehouse.”

 

She opens the door, and John’s overtaken by a musty smell.

 

“Go on, then. He’ll be waiting for you,” she says with a smile.

 

“Er, thanks,” John says. “You’re not – “

 

“Oh, no, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says. “You go on ahead.”

 

Before he can reply, she’s gone into 221A, the door closed loudly behind her, and John is left alone, bemused, on the dark basement stairs.

 

He descends to 221C and flicks on a light switch, illuminating rows and rows of shelves with strange things upon them. There are teapots, urns, bottles with strange things floating in them, what appear to be animal skeletons, devices with purposes he can’t even begin to imagine, mirrors, and more, and he finds it all a bit overwhelming.

 

But, he remembers, he’s looking for another guest to the party.

 

“Er, hello?” he calls, feeling a bit strange calling out to someone in what appears to be a room devoid of human presence. “Anyone down here?”

 

There’s no answer, but suddenly he trips over a piece of wood sticking out of one of the shelves, and just as he’s about to lose his footing, something falls from the top shelf. Instinctively, he catches it in his hands as he manages to regain his footing, and he almost drops it again when he realizes it’s a human skull.

 

“What the bloody fuck!” he says. Yet again, his heart is pounding as he stares, wide-eyed, at the skull in his hands.

 

It stares back, of course, and John runs his hands over it, wondering whether or not it’s real, and then jumps when he hears a voice say, “Oi!”

 

He looks around, startled, and then the voice speaks again. “Down here!” it says, and John almost drops the skull in his hands when he feels its jaw moving against his hands.

 

“What the fuck?” John says, staring at the skull.

 

“You’ve got quite a mouth on you, haven’t you?” the skull asks.

 

John stares in disbelief, his jaw slack. He wonders, for a moment, if maybe he is hallucinating, or one of the ghosts got him and he’s living in some parallel dimension, but then he hears an impatient voice yelling something he can’t quite make out from two floors above.

 

“Go on, then, Sherlock sounds impatient,” the skull says. “Bring me upstairs.”

 

“You can’t just order me around,” John says, annoyed. And then, a moment later, he groans. “I’m talking to a skull,” he says.

 

“It would be much worse if I didn’t talk back,” the skull offers, and John has to admit, it has a point, but he’s not sure he’s okay about acknowledging that, so he silently trudges up the stairs.

 

“Oi,” the skull suddenly says. “Don’t put your fingers in my eye socket!”

 

“Er, right,” John says, adjusting his grip so he’s cradling the skull in his hand. “Sorry about that.”

 

“Honestly,” the skull says. It sounds a bit huffy. “Just because you have _hands_ -“

 

“Yeah, I _do_ have hands,” John interrupts, patience growing thin, “And they’re currently in charge of your well-being, so do shut up.”

 

He gets to the top of the stairs feeling impatience building inside him, and when he opens the door to 221B, Sherlock is lounging on the couch again, smoking his pipe, which does nothing to improve John’s mood.

 

“Took you long enough,” Sherlock says, but he sits up upon seeing the skull in John’s hands. “Ah, Billy!”

 

“A _skull_ ,” John says, handing the skull in question to Sherlock. “You told me to get your friend, and it was a _skull_. Don’t you think you should have told me that?”

 

“What difference does it make? You’d have thought I was mad. Better for you to find out for yourself,” Sherlock says to John, who can’t seem to formulate a response. Sherlock turns to the skull in his hand. “Long time, no see,” he says.

 

The skull yawns, its head swiveling far back from its bottom jaw. “Too long,” it says. “How long has it been, exactly?”

 

“Three years,” Sherlock replies. “Have a nice nap?”

 

“That bloody skull’s been _hibernating_?” John interrupts.

 

Sherlock chuckles and exchanges a glance with the skull. “I suppose you could call it that. Anyway, John, shouldn’t you get to the shops? Why don’t you take Billy with you?”

 

“I’m not taking a bloody skull with me to the grocery store,” John says. “People think I’m crazy enough as it is,” he added, thinking of people avoiding him on the streets as he runs from things they can’t see.

 

“People’s opinions are so tedious,” Sherlock says.

 

“And I’d really like to get some fresh air,” the skull – _Billy_ – says.

 

John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens his eyes again, Sherlock and the skull are still looking at him expectantly.

 

“Okay. Right. This is really happening,” John says.

 

“Of course it is,” Sherlock says impatiently. “What’s apparently _not_ happening is you going to the grocery store.”

 

Billy chuckles at Sherlock’s comment, and John can’t help but stare at the expressionless skull’s shaking jaw as he does so.

 

“Okay, I’ll go to the store. But I’m not taking the skull,” he says.

 

“Are you sure?” Sherlock says. His eyes are narrowed again, looking at John intently. “He can be quite useful in a variety of situations.”

 

“I think I’ll manage,” John says, and he must be imagining the way the skull somehow looks disappointed.

 

“Suit yourself,” Sherlock says. “Good luck. I’ll pay you back later.”

 

“Right,” John says. “See you later, then.”

 

He leaves the apartment and hurries down the stairs, opening the door to the street without being interrupted by Mrs. Hudson. Once outside, he looks back at 221B and wonders if he’s made all of this up; if he’s finally gone crazy.

 

He shakes his head and shoves his hands in his pockets, heading towards the Tesco he knows is nearby. He’s got plenty to think about, but his mind is drawn to the strangest, most mundane problems – he doesn’t even know what Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson like to eat or drink, or whether they prefer red or white wine. The whole situation is crazy, but he goes to Tesco nevertheless, letting the familiar actions of going to the grocery store soothe him, telling himself it won’t be a trip wasted if all of this turns out to be some crazy hallucination - after all, he can just bring the ingredients home and have a lovely dinner by himself.

 

\---

 

John is on his way back to Baker Street, armed with grocery bags, and he’s walking quickly, palms sweaty around the handles of the bags. There’s a spirit behind him. It’s been following him since the grocery store, and it’s particularly big. It’s a long, winding, black shape, almost like a big distorted caterpillar, and on the end is a large mouth, red lips stretched over sharp, pointy teeth and two large, red eyes blinking at him. It smiles every time John turns to look at it. The smile is disgusting and John’s entire body is on alert. He’s trembling and sweating, but the spirit is following him sedately, so he’s not sure running will help.

 

He wonders if Sherlock can really help him, if there can really be an end to this, when he hears a conversation nearby. It’s a girl, university age, talking to her friends.

 

“It’s just really hard, you know? I mean, I never asked for this. I don’t want to see ghosts, but they’re always there. You just don’t know what it’s like. I have a headache all the time, I’m constantly scared, I can’t sleep at night…it’s just horrible!” she says, sounding near tears. Her friends look concerned.

 

“I can’t even imagine it! Are there any here now?” one of them asks.

 

The girl nods. “Yes,” she says solemnly. “There’s one that’s been following me.”

 

John frowns and pauses, turning towards the girl. There is nothing surrounding her; she’s free of spirits. There are plenty around, certainly, but none have even so much as looked in her direction.

 

One of the girl’s friends clearly believes her, though, and she gasps and asks for more details.

 

“It’s terrible,” the girl says. “It’s – I didn’t ask for this, you know?   But it’s here, and I can’t get any peace. It’s just so _hard_. I don’t want to suffer like this. It’s just – this one, it’s the spirit of a man who died in the war. You can’t even begin to imagine how hard it is, looking at his bloody ghost following me around all day,” she says. John frowns and then swivels around in alarm when the spirit behind him begins to move. It approaches the girl and stands right in front of her, looking her in the eye, but she doesn’t notice; she just stares right through it at her friends

 

The spirit turns toward John with its wide grin and winks before opening its mouth around the top of the girl’s head. It floats down her body, its wormlike shape surrounding her for a moment, before it disappears, dissolving into her body. John swallows down bile rising in his throat and watches, but nothing changes. The girl looks paler than before, but otherwise, she doesn’t seem to have noticed. “Let’s go home,” she tells her friends, her voice shaky, and John turns and hurries down Baker Street until he’s reached 221B. He pounds on the knocker until Mrs. Hudson opens the door.

 

“Welcome back, dear,” she says. “You seem to be in a bit of a hurry, hmm?”

 

John pushes past her and heads up the stairs, pulling the door to Sherlock’s flat open without knocking.

 

Sherlock is sprawled on the couch again, still smoking his pipe, gazing up at the ceiling.

 

“Something the matter?” Sherlock asks.

 

“Did you make that happen?” John demands.

 

Sherlock lazily turns his head towards John. “The spirit that overtook the girl?” he asks. “No.”

 

“But you – how do you know about it, then?”

 

Sherlock shrugs, his dressing gown shifting on his skin. “I have eyes and ears in many places,” he says. “But I didn’t make it happen.”

 

“When I asked for them not to bother me, I didn’t mean I wanted them to bother someone else,” John says.

 

“And why is that?” Sherlock asks. He turns towards John. “Why do you care?”

 

“Because no one deserves this!” John says. “It’s terrible! I don’t wish this on _anyone_!”

 

“You’re rather kind, aren’t you? But this has nothing to do with your wish. Not everything revolves around you, you know.”

 

John gapes at him. “Are you calling me selfish?”

 

“Of course not,” Sherlock says. “But I had nothing to do with this. I didn’t do anything.” He leisurely smokes his pipe, staring at the ceiling again. John doesn’t know how to react. “Are you angry?” Sherlock finally asks, eyes still on the ceiling.

 

“I’m not exactly happy,” John says.

 

Sherlock sighs. “That spirit wasn't yours or mine to control. It decides what it wants to do. And you can’t forget, John, that where there exists a wish, there also exists that which is wished for.”

 

“What does that even _mean_?” John says, still holding the grocery bags in the doorway, gaping at Sherlock.

 

“Oh, honestly, John, I thought you were marginally clever, just _think_ ,” Sherlock says, his voice suddenly sharp as he turns away from the ceiling to glare at him.

 

John ignores the glare and finds himself thinking about Sherlock’s words. “She wished for that?” he finally asks, and Sherlock’s dark expression lifts.

 

“Yes, well done,” Sherlock says, an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

 

“Why the hell would anyone wish for this? There’s not a single good thing about it,” he says.

 

Sherlock sits up and sets his pipe down on the side table before standing and crossing the room to John. He takes the grocery bags from John’s hands and sets them on the floor, then puts his hand on John’s shoulder, thumb pressing against his collarbone, and John is frozen in place, unable to move.

 

“People can wish for anything, John,” Sherlock says. “Happiness, unhappiness. There’s nothing we can do to stop someone from wishing for something unpleasant. It’s their choice.”

 

Sherlock squeezes John’s shoulder, then takes a step back. John regards him silently and turns, his heart pounding, the events of the day catching up to him. It’s too much, and he’s not sure he can be around this strange man anymore. He reaches for the door, the knob cold under his hands.

 

“Going home?” Sherlock asks, his voice a low murmur.

 

John doesn’t say anything; he _can’t_ say anything, really, he can’t even process anything that’s just happened to him, and he opens the door.

 

Just as he’s taking a step over the threshold, Sherlock speaks. “John Hamish Watson,” he says, voice low and silky.

 

John doesn’t turn, but he stops and listens.

 

“Remember our destiny,” Sherlock continues.

 

“Destiny?” John murmurs.

 

“Destiny,” Sherlock repeats. “We’ve only just met, but there are no coincidences in this world. Already bonds are forming between you and I; even small encounters inevitably lead to something larger. There’s meaning to everything that happens in this life, including the fact that we met. Remember that, John.”

 

John doesn’t turn around. He continues out the door and goes down the stairs, pulse still pounding in his ears, questions swimming in his mind, fears fighting for purchase in his heart.

 

He leaves 221B Baker Street and vows never to return.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes back to 221B and gets further entangled with Sherlock. In this chapter, Sherlock gets a client, John finds some side-work, and some more characters from the series make their debut.

 

The next afternoon, despite his better judgment, John finds himself outside 221B Baker Street again. Half of him has been expecting to find that the flat itself never even existed; that the entire encounter had been some sort of strange hallucination. And yet, 221B Baker Street is still there, and so is he.

 

_It’s just to get my dog tags back_ , he tells himself, walking up the shallow steps on the sidewalk and reaching for the doorknocker.

 

Just like the last time, though, Mrs. Hudson opens the door before he has the chance, smiling at him. “Oh, hello dear. It’s lovely to see you again! Go on up, then, I’ll bring some tea. Sherlock’s in a bit of a strop, though, I should warn you,” she says, patting John’s shoulder and then bustling off to 221A.

 

_A strop?_ John wonders as he climbs the stairs, a mixture of apprehension and a strange form of excitement coming over him. When he gets to the landing, he takes a moment to steel himself for whatever it is that he’ll find and then he opens the door, not sure what to expect, but the silence that greets him is certainly not it.

 

Sherlock is draped on the couch again, head turned towards the back of it and one arm dramatically over his face, the other hanging limply over the side of the couch, fingers trailing the floor. John’s jaw drops a little bit, wondering if perhaps in the twenty-four hours since he’d last seen him, Sherlock has fallen seriously ill. Being a doctor, he thinks he should examine him, but having met the man, it doesn’t seem like a reasonable idea.

 

“Er, Sherlock?” John says, stepping in and closing the door behind him.

 

“He’s been like this since you left,” a voice says, and John jumps and turns toward the mantle, where the skull is resting.

 

“Why?” John asks, the talking skull still managing to shock him even though he’d had quite a bit of time to try and digest it all.

 

“Because I’m _hungry_ , John,” Sherlock mumbles from under his arm. He lets the arm fall from his face and turns toward John. “You were supposed to make dinner.”

 

John’s jaw drops. “What did you do before yesterday? Did you just not eat? Surely you know how to cook…? You’re a grown man!”

 

Sherlock sighs. “Cooking is _boring_ , John. You bought such nice ingredients,” he says, gesturing towards the bags still lying on the floor. “Mrs. Hudson put away the milk and cheeses because she didn’t want them to go bad, but she was pretending not to be my housekeeper and left the nonperishables on the floor. Honestly.”

 

John’s face twists into disbelief. “Are you bloody serious? How lazy can you get? Have you even moved since yesterday?”

 

“He went to the bathroom a couple times,” Billy offers.

 

“John,” Sherlock says, sounding desperate. “Cook.”

 

“Oh bloody hell, you lunatic, I’ll cook,” John says, taking the bags off the floor and heading into the kitchen. Once there, he puts his hands on his hips and surveys the area, letting out a huff of exasperation. He wouldn’t be surprised to find out Sherlock survives on nothing but the pipe he smokes, the contents of which John is curious about but not quite willing to ask after just yet; he can only take so many shocks.

 

John sets to work, cleaning pots and pans and clearing off the countertops, pausing only to sip the tea Mrs. Hudson brings him. He studiously ignores Sherlock’s whinging from the living room.

 

“If your kitchen wasn’t such a mess in the first place, you could already be eating by now,” John says eventually, nearly an hour later when he’s cleaned the last countertop and put the last of the dishes away. He pauses for a moment to survey his work, leaning back against the counter.

 

“John, don’t you have any _heart_?” Sherlock calls back. “I’m _wilting_. Hurry up.”

 

John snorts. “People don’t wilt,” he says, just as Mrs. Hudson comes through the door again.

 

“Oh, John!” she says. “The kitchen looks lovely! I’ve brought you another cuppa, why don’t you sit down and have a drink before you start cooking?”

 

“Ta, Mrs. Hudson,” John says, feeling unaccountably cheery despite the strange flat he’s in. “That would be lovely.”

 

He goes to the living room and sits in the armchair he’d sat in the day before, adjusting the Union Jack pillow to suit him before taking the tea from Mrs. Hudson.

 

“Sherlock, your cup’s just here, on the table,” Mrs. Hudson says. He’s facing the back of the couch again, curled into a ball, and says nothing in response.

 

“You could at least thank her,” John says to Sherlock’s back before sharing a glance with Mrs. Hudson, who seems to enjoy allowing Sherlock to indulge in this kind of behavior if the faint smile she gives John is anything to go by.

 

“You could at least _cook_ ,” Sherlock retorts.

 

John can’t help the huff of laughter that escapes him. For as intense as he’d been the day before, Sherlock is equally as pathetic today.

 

“This tea is perfect, Mrs. Hudson,” John says, and it truly is, the taste lingering on his tongue.

 

“Oh, I’m glad, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says, patting his shoulder.

 

“I wish I could have tea,” Billy chimes in mournfully from the mantle.

 

“Oh,” John says. “Right. I suppose you can’t really eat or drink, can you?”

 

“Of course he can’t,” Sherlock says. “He’s a skull.”

 

John gives Sherlock’s back a look of disbelief. “Right. But it makes so much sense that he can _talk_.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, and John shakes his head and stands up, bringing his tea to the kitchen.

 

“I’ll just make some risotto, then, shall I?” he says to no one in particular, and when three voices chorus back, “Oh God, _finally_!” and “That would be lovely, dear!” and “Now you’re just rubbing it in, aren’t you?” he can’t help but smile, just a little.

 

\---

 

Sherlock is like a different person after he’s gotten his way and eaten his share of risotto. Once the aroma of cooking food had begun to fill the kitchen, he’d suddenly risen and gone to the bathroom, and then emerged a good while later, just as dinner was finishing, wearing proper clothes (a suit), his curly hair wet from a shower.

 

John is amazed by the difference a suit makes on the man. He’s suddenly become lean lines and authority, his tailored suit snug on his body. He no longer looks debauched or contrary, even if his personality remains the same.

 

“Honestly, John, it was quite good, but I don’t know if it’s worth waiting nearly twenty-four hours. Maybe next time you should be a little quicker about it,” Sherlock says after dinner.

 

“Are you serious? Are you bloody _serious_?” John asks. “I’ve bought groceries, cleaned your kitchen, and cooked you dinner, and you’ve got nothing but complaints?”

 

“Oh, you two get along so well, don’t you?” Mrs. Hudson says fondly, exchanging a conspiratorial glance with Billy, who’s resting atop the kitchen counter.

 

John and Sherlock both send a glare in her direction, but it only makes her smile more, and Billy chuckles.

 

“ _Anyway_ , John, aren’t you going to do the dishes?” Sherlock asks.

 

“I’m not your _slave_ ,” John says, annoyed.

 

“No,” Sherlock agrees. “But you _are_ my employee, and as such-“

 

Suddenly, Sherlock stops, cocking his head to the side and listening intently. Mrs. Hudson and Billy suddenly become quite attentive and watch him carefully, and John looks between the three of them, unsure.

 

“It appears a customer is coming,” Sherlock murmurs. He stands just as they hear the sound of the door to the street opening. Then, there are feet coming up the stairs, and Sherlock goes to the door of the flat, opening it.

 

“Oh, er, hello,” the customer says just as Mrs. Hudson closes the door to the kitchen partway, leaving it open just enough that they can see through into the living room.

 

“What about me?” Billy hisses, and Mrs. Hudson rolls her eyes and grabs him, holding him near the crack so he, too, can watch, something John wonders about considering the skull doesn’t have eyes.

 

The customer is a tall, pale man with short dark hair. He is rather unremarkable save for his long nose.  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I was just walking down the street and then I came inside. I didn’t _mean_ to, really, it was weird…” He trails off, unsure, and Sherlock smiles, leading him into the living room.

 

“Just as I thought,” John whispers to Mrs. Hudson. “It wasn’t his choice to come inside. Sherlock must trick everyone.” Mrs. Hudson gives him an amused smile, but she doesn’t reply.

 

“This is a shop for granting wishes,” Sherlock tells the man, gesturing for him to sit down. He does, in one of the armchairs, and Sherlock sits opposite him on the couch.

 

“Wishes?” the man asks, his brow furrowed. “Are you some kind of freak?”

 

Sherlock smiles thinly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Wishes,” he repeats, crossing his legs and resting his hands in his lap. “The fact that you came in here means that you have a wish. I can grant it, for a small price.”

 

“What kind of price?” he asks skeptically.

 

One of Sherlock’s shoulders rises in a shrug, the smooth fabric of his suit shifting against his skin. He doesn’t break eye contact with the customer. “That depends on the wish. Something of equal value,” he says. His voice is silky.

 

“Typical dirty sales tactics, don’t you think?” John whispers. Billy and Mrs. Hudson stifle a laugh and Mrs. Hudson swats him on the shoulder.

 

“I can hear you,” Sherlock says suddenly, loudly and pointedly towards the kitchen. “At least be useful and bring tea!”

 

John straightens and chuckles, heading towards the teapot, which he’d already started for after dinner tea, and continues to listen to the conversation.

 

“Anyway,” Sherlock says, turning back to the man, who had been looking in the direction of the kitchen quizzically but turns back to Sherlock when he speaks. “I’d like to hear your wish.”

 

The man is silent for a moment, thinking. “I don’t really have one,” he finally says. He frowns as John comes out of the kitchen with a tea tray. John sets a cup on the table beside the customer and hands the other to Sherlock, then heads back to the kitchen, eager to watch the proceedings with Mrs. Hudson and Billy.

 

“No?” Sherlock asks, taking a sip of tea with a raised eyebrow and continuing the conversation.

 

“No,” he repeats.

 

“No… _problems_ as of late?” Sherlock questions.

 

The man’s frown deepens, and then he lifts one hand. “Actually,” he says, “I’ve had trouble moving my pinky lately. I’ve been to the doctor, but he can’t find anything wrong.”

 

Sherlock leans forward and looks at the man’s pinky critically. “Hmm,” he says before leaning back, taking another sip of tea. “Do you have any bad habits?”

 

The man blinks, surprised. “Sorry?”

 

“Bad habits,” Sherlock repeats, rolling his eyes. “Do you have any?”

 

The man takes a sip of tea then sets the cup down. “Er, no, not that I can think of,” he says.

 

“Really?” Sherlock asks, arching one brow. “None?”

 

“No, I don’t think so,” the man repeats, sounding annoyed. John can relate to being annoyed with Sherlock, who’s currently staring intently at the man’s pinky again. John looks at it as well, and he feels his mouth drop when he sees a cloud of black smoke emerge from the man’s finger.

 

“I’ll give you this,” Sherlock finally says, reaching into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulling out a plain, unadorned silver ring. “Wear it on your pinky.”

 

The man looks skeptical. “Is that supposed to help?”

 

“You won’t know unless you try,” Sherlock says. He sounds testy. “Besides, you’re getting a bit desperate now, aren’t you?”

 

The man shrugs and puts the ring in his pocket. “I suppose,” he says skeptically.

 

“Don’t use it if you don’t want to,” Sherlock says. “But it’s a good idea. Just think very carefully about what you use that finger for.”

 

The man frowns. “Right. Er, thanks, I guess,” he says, leaving his barely touched tea on the table and standing up. He heads towards the door, and Sherlock doesn't follow him, he just watches him go through narrowed eyes.

 

When the man disappears through the door, John emerges from the kitchen. “That stuff coming out of his finger…was that smoke?” he asks.

 

“Of a sort,” Sherlock says, eyes still trained on the door.

 

“Will that ring help him?”

 

Sherlock merely shrugs.

 

\--

 

John decides he’s in need of an _actual_ job, one that pays in money and not wishes, and so he goes to an interview the next day for a part time position at a clinic. Frankly, he’s overqualified for the job, but he’ll take what he can get. He doesn’t really want to commit to a full time job, anyway, not with his strange side work with Sherlock.

 

He’s whistling as he approaches Baker Street, thinking of the beautiful receptionist at the clinic where he’d taken the interview that morning. They’d gotten on quite well, and he likes the way she smiles at him, her eyes crinkling in the corners. It’s rather cute, he thinks, and he’s still whistling as he climbs the stairs to Sherlock’s flat. Even Sherlock in a strop can’t put a damper on his mood, he’s sure of it.

 

When he opens the door, though, smiling widely, Sherlock stares at him from the couch with a dark expression.

 

“Your face is terrible,” Sherlock says.

 

“Sorry – what?” John says, good mood fading fast.

 

“Your face is terrible,” Sherlock repeats.

 

“Terrible,” Billy says and laughs.

 

John ignores the skull and stares at Sherlock. “Er – right. Well, can’t really help that, can I? I was born with it and all that. Shall I make tea?” he asks, heading towards the kitchen and ignoring the sting of Sherlock’s comments.

 

“No, no, John, not your facial features themselves. Have you heard of physiognomy?”

 

John turns toward Sherlock, surprisingly relieved that he’d somehow misunderstood such a simple and seemingly straightforward sentence. _But, then, nothing is simple or straightforward with Sherlock_ , he muses, as he turns back around and puts some water in the kettle. “No, I haven’t,” he says.

 

“It’s a form of fortune-telling, in a way. Similar to palm reading, if you need something you’ve heard of to compare it to. However, it’s infinitely more accurate, if you know what you’re looking for,” Sherlock says. He reaches beside him and picks up his pipe, taking a long drag.

 

“And you know what you’re looking for,” John guesses as he flips on the kettle.

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock says.

 

“Care to elaborate?” John asks, annoyed, going to lean against the doorway to the living room so he can see Sherlock.

 

“The things your face can tell an educated viewer can change moment to moment of every day. An encounter with an unlucky person, for example, can change the fate of your day, thus giving you a terrible countenance, meaning that what I see in your face is nothing but terrible luck. The worst of luck,” Sherlock says.

 

“Impossible,” John says cheerily, ignoring Sherlock. “I got a job today.”

 

“Why do you need a job?” Sherlock asks. Judging by the furrow of his brow and the small frown on his face, he is genuinely confused. “You have one.”

 

John rolls his eyes. “A job that pays _money_.”

 

“Ah, money again,” Sherlock says, confusion gone. “Dull.”

 

“Right, it’s not so dull for the rest of us, though, who have to pay bills and make a living. Anyway, I got a job _and_ may have met someone.”

 

“Met someone…?” Sherlock asks.

 

John sighs, turning and going back to the kitchen. Sherlock gets up from the couch and follows, his dressing gown swinging behind him.

 

“Yes,” John says. “Mary. Mary Morstan. We’ll be working together.”

 

“Office romance,” Sherlock remarks scathingly. “How lovely.”

 

“I don’t know why you’re so bitter about it. What about you, then? Got a girlfriend?”

 

“Dull,” he says. “Not my area.”

 

“Oh,” John says, thoughtful. “Boyfriend, then?”

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes at John. “Consider me married to my work,” he says.

 

“Right,” John says uncomfortably. “Well, either way, it’s fine. It’s…all fine.”

 

“Thank you so much for your approval,” Sherlock says, sarcasm tinting his words. “But back on topic. Mary Morstan.”

 

“What about her?” John asks, annoyed.

 

“She’s not good for you.”

 

“You’re wrong,” John says, putting teabags into their cups and pouring hot water over them. “I think it was rather lucky I met her, to be honest. She’s quite attractive.”

 

“It’s certainly true that meeting someone can change your luck,” Sherlock says, moving to stand beside John and leaning forward to enter his personal space. “However, I will tell you this as many times as you need to hear it. I don’t believe Mary Morstan is your Lady Luck.”

 

“Well, thanks for your opinion,” John says with a tight smile, shoving a cup of tea in Sherlock’s direction and forcing him out of his personal space.

 

Sherlock takes the tea with a huff, stalking back to the living room, but he pauses midstride and cocks his head. John nearly runs into the back of him at the unexpected stop, but manages not to.

 

“It appears our customer has returned,” Sherlock says.

 

He sits down on the couch with his tea, and gestures for John to join him. John sits in the armchair he’d sat in the day before, watching the doorway apprehensively. Footsteps come up the stairs, and the man from the day before enters the room without so much as knocking.

 

“Hello,” Sherlock says. “Please, take a seat.”

 

“Er, sorry, I didn’t mean to come, really, but somehow I’m here again,” the man says, sparing a glance at John.

 

“It’s alright. It’s inevitable, after all,” Sherlock says, taking a sip of tea and appearing unconcerned. “Have you been wearing the ring?”

 

“Yeah,” the man says. “I have.”

 

“But you still have a bad habit,” Sherlock says, setting his tea cup down and leaning forward, steepling his fingers in front of his chin. “How old are you?”

 

The man startles for a moment, thrown off track by the question. “Twenty-nine,” he says, and John’s jaw drops when smoke immediately begins to leak from the man’s finger.

 

“Job?” Sherlock asks.

 

“Head of the forensics division at New Scotland Yard. I’ve just gotten a promotion,” he boasts. More smoke emerges from his finger, smoke John thinks maybe only he and Sherlock, and maybe Billy and Mrs. Hudson if she were there, can see.

 

“Hmm,” Sherlock says. “And you’re sure you don’t have any bad habits?”

 

The man shakes his head, and Sherlock leans forward. “But you do,” he murmurs. “Here,” he says, reaching across the table and tapping the side of the man’s mouth with his index finger as the man jerks away from his touch, “and here,” he finishes, tapping the man’s chest.

 

The man frowns in confusion as Sherlock sits back on the couch again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

 

“Of course not,” Sherlock replies. “How’s your pinky, then?” He sounds like he doesn’t care to hear the answer.

 

“Actually, it’s gotten worse,” the man says. “Even my arm is hard to move now.”

 

“Boring,” Sherlock murmurs. He leans forward and gestures towards the man’s ring, which John realizes now is a bit dirty and cracked. “If you work in forensics, you should have a few brain cells lurking about in there. Use them to figure out your bad habit.”

 

The man frowns. He doesn’t seem to know what to make of Sherlock’s words, and neither does John. “If I figure it out, will my hand get better?”

 

Sherlock nods. “Yes,” he says. “Would you like some tea?”

 

John is surprised by the sudden change in topic, but Sherlock is watching the man with an unwavering, hard expression. It’s not friendly, like his invitation would suggest.

 

“No thanks, I promised my girlfriend I’d meet her for a drink.”

 

As John watches, more and more smoke swirls from the man’s ring.

 

“I met her a while back; she’s a doctor at St. Bart’s. She’s got a good job and she’s quite fit; I couldn’t believe my luck! I might even pop the question soon!”

 

As he talks, the smoke gets thicker, and John finds himself urgently covering his nose and mouth to avoid the smell.

 

“Well,” Sherlock says, “you’d best be off, then. John, get the door for our guest?”

 

John takes his hand from his face and nods before standing to usher the man out, closing the door behind him and then turning to Sherlock.

 

“That smoke was disgusting,” he says.

 

“Quite,” Sherlock agrees. “So is the man. But that smoke is why he can’t move his finger.”

 

“Is he possessed by something?” John asks, unsure.

 

Sherlock shakes his head, eyes still on the door. “No, nothing like that. It’s his own problem, but that was probably the last time he’ll come here.” Sherlock reaches for his tea and takes another long sip, then peers at John. “Go on, then,” he says. “Follow him if you want, but he has to figure this out on his own. You can’t help him.”

 

John looks between Sherlock and the door, and he only pauses for a moment before he heads out, rushing down the steps. Something tells him to follow the man, even if he can’t tell him what Sherlock said.

 

John hurries down Baker Street, catching a glimpse of the man up ahead. He’s on the phone. John gets just close enough to hear what he’s saying, but stays out of the man’s line of sight.

 

“…yeah, 8:00 is perfect, I’ll be there, I promise!” He laughs for a moment before he speaks again. “Yeah, yeah, pinky promise!...Yeah, it’s just a stupid dinner with the new head of forensics. Should be _my_ job, right?...Yeah, I know, no problem. Yeah, see you later, Sally. Can’t wait.”

 

The man hangs up, and John is overwhelmed by the smoke coming from the man’s pinky. He covers his nose and mouth with his hand, and watches as the man dials another number before continuing down the street. John follows discreetly.

 

“Hey, baby!...Yeah, I just got done at work, a lot to do now that I’m head of the department!...thanks, you know, I’d love to celebrate with you…want to have dinner? I’ve got nothing on ‘til 8, we’re having a little party at work to celebrate the promotion. Want to have some dinner beforehand? …Sounds perfect, love….I know, right? Twenty-five and head of forensics at New Scotland Yard and you for a girlfriend…doesn’t get any better!....Right, right, okay, see you in twenty.”

 

The man hangs up and John is overwhelmed by the smoke. The man’s habit has become quite clear. John follows him to a corner, where the man stops and rubs at his neck, grimacing, as if more of his body is in pain. When the light changes, the man crosses the street, stopping in the middle of the crosswalk for a moment when a tall, fit guy says, “Anderson? Phil Anderson?”

 

“Oh, Danny, long time no see!” the man, Anderson, says. “How are you? Still at the same job?”

 

“Yeah, man, you know how it is. Same old, same old. Hey, what’s up with that ring? From a girlfriend?” the man asks, wriggling his eyebrows and gesturing at Anderson’s hands, where he’s fiddling with the ring.

 

Anderson grins. “Yeah, got a new girlfriend. A lawyer! She gave me this for my last birthday.”

 

“Nice man, what is that, titanium?”

 

“Sure is,” Anderson replies with a smile.

 

“Oh, sorry mate, the light’s gonna change, gotta run,” the other man says suddenly, waving at Anderson and jogging off in the opposite direction.

 

Anderson twists at the ring for a moment, frowning at how tarnished it’s become, and John watches with horror from the other side of the road.

 

“Don’t take it off!” he yells, but his voice is lost to the sounds of traffic and the man twists at the ring for a moment before yanking it off his finger. The smoke curls out faster than ever, uncontained by the strange ring Sherlock had given him, and John watches as the man’s eyes widen in fear. He seems unable to move his body. He’s jerking a little bit in his attempts to move, but he remains rooted to the spot in the middle of the crosswalk as traffic begins again in the other direction.

 

Suddenly, cars are coming fast, turning onto the street and unable to see the crosswalk, and without warning, John covers his mouth with his hands and watches as the inevitable happens. A truck comes fast around the corner, slams on its brakes, but can’t avoid the man. Phil Anderson gets hit, and the ring flies out of his hand in an arc, hitting the pavement with an innocent little ding not far from John’s feet. His hand shaking, he picks it up and puts it in his pocket.

 

\---

 

John’s angry. He can’t understand Sherlock, he just _can’t_. He takes the steps two at a time and pushes into 221B, ignoring the sounds of Sherlock playing the violin – for some reason, it annoys him to discover that Sherlock can do such a beautiful, sensitive thing – and slams the door shut behind him.

 

Sherlock lowers his violin. “Ah,” he says.

 

“Ah,” John repeats. “What do you mean, ‘ _ah_ ’?”

 

“I think he’s angry,” Billy says to Mrs. Hudson, who is emerging from the kitchen with a cup of tea, presumably for Sherlock.

 

“Seems that way,” Mrs. Hudson agrees.

 

“I can _hear_ you, you know,” John says in annoyance, then pulls the ring out of his pocket and holds it out to Sherlock. “This. This! You _knew_ what the problem was and you didn’t help him!”

 

“It would be meaningless if someone else told him, John, I told you that,” Sherlock says, setting his violin and bow down and taking the ring from John. “It couldn’t be helped. He made his choices. But you, John, you even went to the hospital with him, didn’t you? That’s so like you. _Caring_.”

 

“And you, you don’t care at all, do you?” John asks. “He almost _died_ , Sherlock!”

 

“But he didn’t, did he? People lie, John. Sometimes they lie so much it takes over their lives. It’s their own choice, and there’s nothing you or I can do to stop it. They have to decide not to lie, the same way they decide _to_ lie. There’s nothing we could have done. He’s still alive.   I’d think you’d be happy.”

 

“I’m not happy he got hit by a bloody truck!” John says.

 

Sherlock shrugs, looking at the ring for a moment, and then flicking his wrist. It crumbles into ashes that disappear with a sweep of his hand. John boggles at the sight for a moment, and then shakes his head.

 

“Just one question, Sherlock. Did you know from the beginning what would happen to him? And does that mean you know everything that will happen to me?”

 

“If that’s what you believe, then maybe that’s the case,” Sherlock says with a shrug. “The world isn’t some infinite being that has existed forever and will exist forever. It’s not black and white, John. It’s what you make it.”

 

John shakes his head again, mind turning over Sherlock’s words. “I’m making some bloody tea,” he grumbles, heading to the kitchen.

 

“Make some dinner while you’re at it!”

 

“Oh, shove it!”

 

\---

 

A few days later, John enters 221B warily. He’s just had a shift at the clinic, and things with Mary have been going well. Even so, the thought of Sherlock telling him he has a terrible face is daunting.

 

However, when he enters the flat, Sherlock just looks at him through narrowed eyes.

 

“You should move in,” Sherlock says.

 

“Er, sorry, what?”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and stands up. He’s wearing a dark blue dressing gown, the voluminous sleeves of which nearly cover his hands. It trails on the floor behind him as he approaches John.

 

“You’re obviously not sleeping well at night judging by the bags under your eyes and how much you yawn all day. You spend most of your time here as it is, and this _is_ actually closer to the clinic than your miserable flat, which you clearly hate, and you’ve got a mold problem, haven’t you?”

 

“How’d you – right, I won’t ask how you know all that. You’re brilliant. But I don’t think I can afford the rent here.”

 

“Oh, nonsense,” Mrs. Hudson says, emerging from the kitchen holding Billy in the crook of her arm. “Of course you can. I give Sherlock a special deal.”

 

“Not to mention, we can just add your rent to your work. It’s not a problem,” Sherlock says with a flippant wave of his hand.

 

“No,” John says quickly. “No, I think I prefer money.”

 

“So you’re interested, then?” Sherlock asks, hands on his hips.

 

John frowns for a moment and thinks. Sherlock’s a bloody madman and living with him full time could be the single most infuriating experience of his life. On the other hand, though, the ghosts don’t bother him when he’s with Sherlock, and there’s something about being around Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson and even bloody Billy that is comforting; after all, he has no one else in the world. He sighs. “Yeah, alright. I’m interested.”

 

“He’s _interested_ ,” Billy says with a cackle. Mrs. Hudson snorts and then does her best to act like she hasn’t been laughing when John looks at her in annoyance. Sherlock ignores them and seems inordinately pleased, if the flush that creeps up his neck means anything.

 

“There’s a bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing it, then,” Mrs. Hudson says, her eyes dancing with mirth.

 

“If I – of _course_ I’ll be needing it,” John says, brushing past them all and heading to the kitchen. “I’ll also be needing some tea, Christ.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be next week at this time! Thanks for reading...I would love to hear any and all thoughts you have on this! As usual, thanks to weighted-orange for the thorough and lovely beta work!! (But I made some edits after she got through with it, so any mistakes you find are mine and mine alone!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a run-in with a particularly nasty spirit, and Sherlock uses some interesting magic as a result. Our boys also have some wine together, and go visit Sherlock's favorite fortuneteller. Meanwhile, exactly who/what is Mary?

John moves in with Sherlock a few days later, taking the upstairs room in 221B. It’s not very big, but it’s much nicer than the small, bleak bedsit he’d had before. It’s not much of a change in his routine, either, not when he’d been spending so much time at Baker Street already. He wakes up on his first morning there and makes breakfast, but Sherlock says he’s not eating.

 

“John, now that you’ve moved in, we should discuss a few things,” Sherlock says, sitting across from John at the kitchen table and sipping his tea.

 

“What, like, who cleans?” John asks, taking a bite of his toast.

 

“Don’t be dull,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. “Obviously that’s you.”

 

John refrains from speaking his mind. “Right. Obviously,” he says instead.

 

“Anyway, you can’t have visitors here,” Sherlock says.

 

John furrows his brow. “Why not?”

 

“It’s a place of business. You never know when a customer will come,” he says.

 

“Oh,” John says, considering Sherlock’s words. He doesn’t have anyone he’d invite over, anyway, except maybe Mary, but they haven’t even gone on a proper date yet. “Yeah, alright.”

 

\---

 

John thinks it’s strange that Sherlock has a no visitors rule, but then, Sherlock is strange, so it’s to be expected. He’s just telling Mary this during their lunch break when she raises an eyebrow.

 

“What?” John asks.

 

“You talk about him so much, and now you’ve moved in with him. And he’s your…friend?”

 

John blinks. _Oh_. “It’s not – really, it’s not like that. Not at _all_. Just a much more convenient flat than what I had before, really.”

 

Mary smiles playfully. “Oh. Well, that’s good to know,” she says. She looks down at her sandwich, then up at John again, and smiles. “I’d like to meet him sometime.”

 

“Oh…really?” John asks. He tries to imagine the two of them meeting, but finds it difficult. “I mean, yeah, maybe. He’s a bit…odd.”

 

“That’s alright,” she says. “I don’t mind.”

 

John smiles and decides to test his luck. “Are you free tonight? Do you want to get dinner?”

 

“Tonight?” she asks. “Actually, I have plans. But what about tomorrow night? How about Sherlock comes along, too?”

 

John does his best to keep his expression casual. “Yeah, alright,” he says. “I’ll talk to Sherlock, but I can’t guarantee he’ll come. He doesn’t get out much.”

 

“Alright. Let me know,” she says, standing up and gathering the remains of her lunch. “See you later, John!”

 

She sounds cheerful, but John’s quite sure he just got rejected. He remembers her playful smiles, though, and the way she’d looked up at him through her lashes, and he feels like they’d been flirting. It’s quite confusing, and he’s not sure which signals to pick up on. Either way, he doesn’t want her to meet Sherlock. It would be too strange.

 

He stands up to go back to his office, but freezes when the hair on the back of his neck stands up and his body breaks out in goose pimples. He’d been alone in the break room when Mary left, but now he’s not.

 

A large spirit has made its way in. It doesn’t have eyes, only a large, gaping mouth. Its lips are red and cracked, and it only has two teeth, long fangs coming from behind its upper lip. John swallows, unable to look away, and feels his hands begin to tremble. It doesn’t have eyes, but it’s certainly looking at him.

 

John’s heart is pounding, but he gathers the trash from his lunch and throws it away, not looking over his shoulder as he heads to his office, his body moving in his usual routine but his mind spinning in circles he can’t keep up with. He doesn’t have to turn around to know that the spirit’s behind him. He can feel it, can feel the cold seeping towards him and the goose bumps continuing to break out over his flesh.

 

The spirit follows him into his office. It doesn’t touch him, just sits beside him, giving the impression that it’s staring at him despite the fact that it has only a mouth on its eyeless face. John finds this almost worse than an attack. He’s not sure what to do; he’s at a doctor’s office, so he can’t feign illness, but he doesn’t think he can handle being in such close proximity to this…this _thing_ any longer than he has to. He wants to go home.

 

He only has two patients in the afternoon. The spirit, as terrible a feeling as it gives him, isn’t making any malicious moves, so he decides to go about his business. It’s not the first time a spirit has clung to him, after all, but it’s definitely the first time one of this magnitude has. He’s worried what the spirit will do, but it turns out that when his patients come in, the spirit just gets closer to John, making his hands shake and sweat break out on his brow, but it doesn’t harm anyone. His patients are worried for him, but John says he has seasonal allergies. They don’t seem to believe him.

 

By the time the day is over, John is rushing out, eager to leave work and stop endangering everyone around him with the spirit that’s attached itself to him. This one is different than most; it seems particularly malicious, making him colder and more nauseous than most spirits, and yet it hasn’t made any move to hurt him. It’s terrifying, really, and he feels frantic to get back to Baker Street.

 

“John, are you alright?” Mary asks as he’s leaving, looking at him quizzically. The spirit turns towards Mary. It approaches her but then seems to quiver in disgust, its mouth closing and twisting, before rapidly going back to John again, coming even closer and causing John’s body to shudder.

 

“Fine, fine,” John says, sweat gathering along his hairline. “I’ll just be going.”

 

His voice is thin, shaky, and Mary seems concerned, but she bites her lip and nods, face downcast and a bit sad. John turns and leaves as fast as he can without running, the spirit behind him the whole time.

 

Once outside, he swallows, nausea building in his stomach. He decides against the subway because it’s bound to be filled with more spirits than this one; they seem to like the underground, and he doesn’t want this lone spirit to turn into a cluster. He doesn’t fancy being trapped in a taxi with this thing, either, so he sets off at a brisk pace towards Baker Street. It’s about a ten-minute walk from the clinic, but at his current pace, more like five. Even so, it feels like hours.

 

The cold of the spirit is seeping into him, turning his stomach into a tight knot. He feels like he has the flu. His entire body aches, he’s sweating, and his head is pounding in dizziness. Then he feels it: the spirit is clinging to his back, pressed against him like a block of ice against his body. It’s making his stomach turn. He wants to throw up.

 

He turns the corner; he can _see_ Baker Street up ahead. He longs to go inside the flat, to reach the door and send this spirit away. He breaks into a run, but the spirit on his back doesn’t like it. It tugs at him and tries to pull him back, but John fights. Suddenly, though, he feels a stabbing pain close to his neck where the tip of one of the spirit’s fangs has punctured his skin.

 

 _No, no, no_ , John thinks, moisture leaking from his eyes as he pushes forward towards 221B. Trying to get there is like running against a river’s current, and his shirt is soaked with sweat. He moves ahead nonetheless, finally reaching the door, slamming his hand against it and panting with relief as the spirit disappears.

 

His whole body hurts, and the nape of his neck feels like it’s on fire. His legs are shaking beneath him and he’s not sure he can hold himself up. Strange thoughts are filling his mind, bleak thoughts of death and terror, and he’s shuddering. But suddenly the door opens, and Mrs. Hudson is there, looking at him in concern and grabbing onto his arms when he nearly falls forward into her.

 

“Oh, dear,” she says. “You’d best get upstairs, hadn’t you?”

 

John doesn’t say anything; he’s not sure he can. He shakily walks toward the stairs, grasping the railing for support. His bones feel like they’re breaking with every step, and his neck is burning. Mrs. Hudson follows closely behind him.

 

Sherlock opens the door with a bang and comes to the landing, tension evident in his hunched shoulders and furrowed brow. “John,” he says, his voice thick. His eyes are flitting wildly over John’s body and the space around it, and he rushes down the steps between them to offer John his arm.

 

John takes it, clutches it, really, and lets Sherlock help him up the remaining steps. His vision is a bit blurry, but Sherlock’s arm feels warm under his hands, and he clings to the comforting feeling as they enter the flat. His body is weak with exhaustion, and he collapses onto the couch as soon as he’s near enough.

 

“Stay sitting up,” Sherlock says, voice firm and yet concerned. Mrs. Hudson takes Billy from the mantle and sits in the armchair, close by and ready to help.

 

Sherlock disappears down the hall for a moment. John turns his head feebly and watches him go. He wants to protest, to tell him to come back, but his body feels weak and he’s not sure he can.

 

“It’s alright, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says, leaning forward and holding his forearm. “He’ll be right back.” Her hand is soothing and it feels nice against his chilled skin, and he closes his eyes and nods. Everything seems to be swimming around him.

 

“Sherlock can help you, John, don’t worry,” Billy says, his voice cutting through the haze in John’s head. He’s strangely comforting, for a skull.

 

Then Sherlock is back, and Mrs. Hudson withdraws her hand. John opens his watery eyes and looks at Sherlock. Sherlock is blurry, but he is magnificent. He’s standing tall, and something in his eyes seems to have shifted. His dressing gown is tied tight, somehow appearing to be a powerful and imposing robe rather than the lazy attire it really is. He’s holding a small piece of paper in his hands with writing on it that John can’t make out.

 

“John,” Sherlock says, his voice low. “Don’t move.”

 

“Mmm,” John says. He doesn’t think he can.

 

Sherlock closes his eyes and holds the paper directly in front of him. Then, he begins to murmur something John can’t understand. He doesn’t think it’s English, but he can’t be sure. Sherlock lets go of the paper, but it doesn’t move, and stays floating in midair. Sherlock’s hands make a complicated, vaguely circular movement around it, and then suddenly, he stretches his arms out straight in front of him, flicks his wrists quickly until his hands make a ‘stop,’ gesture, and the paper flings itself forward to slam into John’s forehead.

 

It doesn’t feel like paper when it hits. It feels heavy, like Sherlock’s hands themselves have slapped him. He reels back a bit from the sensation, but doesn’t take his eyes from Sherlock. Their eyes are locked, and Sherlock takes a deep breath, holds it, and then claps once. The sound is louder than John expects, and just as he hears it, the paper on his head disappears. His skin begins to feel a normal temperature again, and the goose pimples die down. The pain in his head is clearing, and he slumps forward in exhaustion.

 

“Not yet,” Sherlock murmurs. “You must be tired, but I’m not done.” He reaches forward and runs his fingers through John’s hair, and John nearly whimpers at the sensation, so pleasant after how sick and terrified he’s felt all afternoon. He’s still shaking.

 

“The poor dear,” Mrs. Hudson murmurs. Billy makes a sympathetic sound in agreement, but John is too tired to reply.

 

Sherlock pushes John until he’s sitting back against the couch, then undoes the buttons of his shirt. “I’ll need to see your neck,” he murmurs.

 

“Mmm,” John agrees, eyes still closed, body still trembling.

 

Sherlock carefully untucks John’s shirt, and then helps him out of it.   John’s not much use; his arms feel like jello and he’s still nauseous. He shivers, cold in just his undershirt, but Sherlock’s hands are warm on his shoulders as he pulls him forward a bit.

 

“Keep your head down, John, just like this,” Sherlock says, his long fingers pulling John’s head forward.

 

“There’s a lad,” Mrs. Hudson encourages.

 

John wants to protest being treated like a child, but he supposes Mrs. Hudson is old enough to treat everyone like a child, and he’s much too tired. Sherlock’s fingers rub over the burning area at the base of his neck where the spirit’s tooth had touched him, and John shivers unpleasantly, twisting away from the touch.

 

Sherlock removes his hands and John hears the sound of a glass jar being opened, and then Sherlock’s hands are back, but this time they’re rubbing something over the area, something cool, as Sherlock murmurs something in a language John can’t place again. The ointment smells of vaguely familiar spices and it feels heavenly. John feels himself slumping forward a bit more, a shaky sigh leaving his mouth in relief.

 

Sherlock takes his hands away, and John doesn’t mean to, really, but a small whimper escapes him.

 

“The poor dear,” Mrs. Hudson comments again, and John would feel embarrassed if he had the energy. But then, Sherlock’s fingers run through his hair again, and he sighs.

 

“That was a close one,” Sherlock murmurs. “Next time, you should take Billy with you.”

 

John doesn’t reply; he’s not sure he’s expected to, and he doesn’t think he can. He can only focus on the feel of Sherlock’s fingers against his skull, his head drifting forward until it’s resting against Sherlock’s hip, his breath warm against the soft fabric of Sherlock’s dressing gown, his eyes closed.

 

“He should rest, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson says. She sounds worried.

 

“Yes, alright,” Sherlock says. “I can take it from here. Why don’t you and Billy go down and watch some telly, or whatever it is you do when you’re not here.” His words are sharp and dismissive, a strange contrast to the soft touch of his fingers on John’s head, and John grimaces slightly.

 

“Oh, honestly,” Mrs. Hudson says, but John hears her stand up.

 

“They want some _alone time_ ,” Billy says with a chuckle, and John hears Mrs. Hudson snort, and then he hears a light thump, which he thinks might be her swatting the skull.

 

“Timing, Billy,” Mrs. Hudson chides, and John thinks this is all a bit much to handle and his mouth is twisting a bit.

 

But then he hears the door close, and Sherlock eases him up a tiny bit then sits beside him, one hand still cupping the back of John’s head.

 

“You must be tired,” Sherlock says again.

 

“Mm,” John says.

 

“Lie down,” Sherlock says, voice soft, his hand shifting. He tugs a bit on John’s shoulders until John is lying on the couch, his head resting on a pillow on top of Sherlock’s lap.

 

John’s tired, but even so, this seems strange. He opens his eyes, squinting against the light, and looks up at Sherlock, who’s looking at him in concern. One of Sherlock’s arms is draped over John’s chest, and with the other, he is still running fingers through John’s hair, an expression on his face that John hasn’t seen before, but that makes his heart twist in his chest.

 

John wants to protest. He wants to say that this isn’t how flatmates should act, that this isn’t how employees and employers should act, that this isn’t even how _mates_ should act, but those thoughts pale in comparison to how safe and comfortable Sherlock feels, so he lets his eyes drift closed and he sleeps.

 

\---

 

John wakes to the smell of Chinese food. He opens his eyes and blinks a few times, disoriented and confused. He’s not quite sure where he is or what time it is. He swivels his head a bit and realizes he’s lying on the couch in his flat, and then suddenly he remembers the spirit, and making his way home, and then Sherlock taking care of him. With a flush of embarrassment, he remembers falling asleep on Sherlock, but the man in question is in the kitchen, if the sounds he hears are anything to go by.

 

“He’s awake!”

 

John turns his head towards the living room table, where Billy is perched, watching John on the couch.

 

“Billy,” John says, his voice rough with sleep. “What – have you just been watching me?”

 

“I don’t have much of a choice,” Billy said. “This is where they put me.”

 

“Right,” John says, closing his eyes. He doesn’t feel sick anymore, but he still feels exhausted. “What time is it?”

 

“Half nine,” Sherlock says, coming into the living room with two plates of Chinese food. “You’ve been asleep nearly five hours.”

 

“What – really?” John says, blinking in confusion.

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock says. “What would be my purpose in lying?”

 

John blinks. He’s too sleep-addled for this.

 

“Sit up, then,” Sherlock demands, looking at John impatiently.

 

“What – right,” John says, rubbing his eyes and sitting up, pausing for a moment when his head swims in dizziness. He opens his eyes and turns to look at Sherlock when he sits beside him, then looks at the table, where he’s put down the two plates of food, ignoring Billy’s protests that he’s just taunting him, putting food so close to him. “Did you make dinner?” John asks.

 

“Of course not,” Sherlock says. “Cooking is dull. I ordered it.”

 

John can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes him, and even Sherlock manages a quirked lip and a small chuckle.

 

“Er, thanks, for before,” John says a bit awkwardly, reaching for the plate.

 

“No need to thank me,” Sherlock says. “After all, you’ll be paying for it. I’ve added it to your debt.”

 

“My debt?” John asks, mood shifting from grateful to irritated.

 

“Yes, of course. Everything requires payment, John. I’ve told you this. There’s a delicate balance that must be maintained. Now your work here will not only cover the granting of your wish, but also today’s services.”

 

“Right,” John says, too tired for such a conversation. He eats some of his food, suddenly starving, and vaguely annoyed at Sherlock’s rules.

 

“John, the spirit you met today was quite rare,” Sherlock says after a moment of eating in silence. “Not one you’d meet just any day.”

 

“Really? I thought so. I’ve never reacted like that to one of them before,” John says.

 

“Don’t you find it…curious that it found you, then?” Sherlock asks. He’s watching John shrewdly.

 

John shrugs, chewing his food. “Not really,” he says once he’s swallowed. “I mean, they’re attracted to me, right?”

 

“You are most certainly quite delicious to them, yes. But don’t you find it strange that today of all days this spirit, of a magnitude you’ve never encountered before, decides to follow you around and go so far as to pierce your skin with its teeth?” Sherlock sounds a bit agitated, and John frowns.

 

“I don’t know. It’s just a coincidence, I guess.”

 

“John,” Sherlock says sharply. “There are no coincidences in this world; the universe is rarely so lazy. There is only the inevitable.”

 

“You’re always saying that,” John complains, unconcerned, as he eats more of his dinner.

 

“Because it’s true. _Think_ , John. What were you doing before you met this spirit?” Sherlock’s not eating anymore. He’s leaning forward to stare at John intensely.

 

John shrugs. “Just eating lunch,” he says.

 

“Alone?” Sherlock asks, drawing out the word, using a low and dangerous tone of voice.

 

“No, with Mary,” John says. He smiles a bit. “I asked her for dinner, actually, but she was busy. She wants to go out tomorrow night, though.”

 

“Mary,” Sherlock says. “Do you remember–”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” John says around a mouthful of chicken. “Not my Lady Luck.” He rolls his eyes.

 

“You don’t find it strange that you talked with her and almost immediately afterward, you met a vile spirit that nearly killed you?”

 

John blinks, startled. “Nearly killed me?”

 

“If you hadn’t gotten here in time, it could have. But that’s not the _point_ , John. Doesn’t that seem like strange timing?”

 

John shrugs again, a bit uneasy. “I think it’s just a coincidence. Mary’s quite sweet, really.” He pauses, thinking for a moment, glancing at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. “Actually, she said she’d like to meet you tomorrow night, if you’re free.”

 

“Did she now?” Sherlock asks. He raises one eyebrow, and John can’t read the expression on his face. “That sounds… _interesting_. As it happens, I have no plans.”

 

John’s not sure why he’s gone ahead and invited Sherlock, but he thinks that if Sherlock could just _meet_ Mary, he’d stop it with all the nonsense he’s been spouting. John knows Mary has nothing to do with the spirit he’d met that day, he just _knows_.

 

“I want to come,” Billy pipes up from the table.

 

“Absolutely not,” John says, at the same time that Sherlock says, “Of course!”

 

John turns toward Sherlock and his jaw drops. “Sherlock, you can’t be serious. You can’t just bring a bloody talking _skull_ –“

 

“That’s a bit rude, mate,” Billy says from the table. If skulls could frown, John is quite sure Billy would be frowning.

 

“I’m not trying to be rude,” John consoles. “But most people aren’t accustomed to seeing human skulls, let alone listening to them talk.”

 

“Well, I don’t think Mary’s most people,” Sherlock says. “I think she’ll be fine.”

 

John frowns and angrily eats the rest of his Chinese food. He needs to make sure Billy stays home.

 

\---

 

The next morning, a Saturday, dawns bright and cheerful. It’s a beautiful day outside; it’s not too hot, the sun is out, and there’s a light breeze. There’s no threat of rain, such a rare occurrence that John feels the need to capitalize on it. When Sherlock bellows that they’ve run out milk, John’s more than happy to go to the store and pick some up.

 

He’s just on his way down the stairs when he passes Mrs. Hudson, going upstairs with two cups of tea.

 

“Oh, John, I’ve just made some tea for you two! Are you going out?” she asks.

 

John smiles at her. “Yes, running to Tesco. Thought I’d take a bit of a walk through the park, too. Would you like to come? It’s lovely outside!”

 

Mrs. Hudson smiles, but it’s sad. “Oh, no dear, I couldn’t,” she says.

 

“Oh,” John says uncomfortably. “Are you-”

 

“I can’t leave this flat,” she says.

 

John frowns. “You – what do you mean, you can’t leave this flat?”

 

She smiles. “It’s alright, really. I’ve never left, so it’s not as if there’s anything I miss.”

 

John’s jaw drops, and he tries to form words for a moment, but he finds there’s nothing he can think of to say because he can’t understand the situation. “Right,” he finally says. “Er, do you need anything at the shops, then?”

 

Mrs. Hudson beams. “Always so kind, John! You’re just what we needed around here! But no, thanks, I’m just fine.” She turns from him and heads up the stairs, and John watches her go for a moment before leaving the flat, a puzzled frown on his face.

 

\---

 

The rest of the day passes uneventfully. John wants to ask Sherlock about Mrs. Hudson, but Sherlock has been doing some sort of experiment in the living room, mixing strange liquids together while Billy watches and makes commentary John doesn’t understand.

 

They’re set to meet Mary at 5:00 in the park. It’s a bit early, but she’d suggested the earlier time, saying they shouldn’t miss out on such a nice day. John had agreed, and he’d spent most of the afternoon preparing sandwiches and snacks for them.

John’s ready to meet Mary ten minutes early. He’s waiting impatiently in the living room, glaring at Billy as he stands in front of the mantle, occasionally adjusting his shirt or his trousers or his hair.

 

“I don’t know why you want to come,” John complains as he smooths down the back of his hair.

 

“I hardly ever get out of here,” Billy says. “I’ve spent the last three years locked away in a basement. The only people I ever see are you three. Don’t you think I get a little lonely sometimes?”

 

John rolls his eyes. “Right, but you’re a skull,” he says.

 

“That doesn’t mean I don’t have _feelings_ ,” Billy says, clearly offended.

 

“Sorry,” John says. “It’s just, most people aren’t accustomed to talking skulls.”

 

“She’ll be fine,” Billy says. “Besides, I’ll wait to talk until you give me the okay.”

 

“Right, because that makes it _so much better_ ,” John says. He sighs. His life is mad.

 

Sherlock comes down the hallway then, finally dressed and ready to go, buttoning his suit jacket as he walks.

 

“Are you wearing a suit to the park?” John asks, his brow furrowed as he takes in Sherlock’s attire.

 

“Problem?” Sherlock asks, adjusting his collar.

 

“Er, it’s a little bit formal,” John says. “Not to mention, you’ll probably be a bit hot.”

 

“Hmm,” Sherlock says thoughtfully. He appears to think deeply about it for a moment, then he removes his jacket and unbuttons his sleeves. He rolls them up a bit and skews the collar he’d just perfected. “How’s that? Effortlessly ruffled? Good for an evening in the park?”

 

John sighs. “Honestly, you’re bloody mad,” he says, but he has to admit Sherlock looks good. Possibly better than he does himself, which is really not on.

 

“I see you’ve done your best for Mary,” Sherlock says. “Nicest shoes, pressed trousers, blue shirt that matches your eyes. Well done.”

 

John can’t decide if Sherlock is being patronizing or not, so he doesn’t reply.

 

“Are we ready, then?” Billy asks, clearly excited and moving his lower jaw rapidly so it appears he’s bouncing on the table.

 

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock says, picking Billy up and tucking him under his arm.

 

“Brilliant!” Billy says, clearly excited.

 

“Oh, if the bloody skull is coming, at least put him in the bag,” John says, resigned. “You can’t just carry a skull around London.”

 

Sherlock beams, and John gets the feeling he’s fallen into a trap as Sherlock puts the skull in the tote bag John’s put the picnic supplies in.

 

“You always get your way, don’t you,” John grumbles.

 

Sherlock just continues to beam, which John finds a bit unsettling, and leads the way out of the flat.

 

\---

 

When they get to the park, Mary is waiting for them near the fountain they’d chosen earlier. She really does look quite lovely, John thinks, in her long, flowing sundress, her hair fluttering in the light breeze. He smiles.

 

“Hello, Mary,” he says as they approach. He’s just wondering whether he should give her a hug in greeting when she waves, making him stop before he can go through with the hug.

 

“Hi John! You look lovely!” She smiles, and John can’t help but smile back.

 

“Oh, er, this is Sherlock,” he says, gesturing towards Sherlock.

 

Sherlock smiles at Mary, a smile John doesn’t really like. It’s tight and insincere. Nonetheless, Sherlock extends his right hand and Mary takes it.

 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Mary says, still smiling. “I’ve heard so much about you from John.”

 

“Is that so?” Sherlock asks, raising one eyebrow and turning towards John. Inexplicably, John feels his face flush.

 

He’s saved a response when Mary starts to speak. “I’ve found a nice little area over there,” she says, gesturing behind her. “It’s not too crowded, and it’s in the shade. Shall we?”

 

John smiles and steps forward to walk beside her. “Did you get here early, then?” he asks, ignoring Sherlock and letting him trail behind.

 

“Just a bit,” she says. “The bus schedule is so hard to predict; I was afraid I’d be late if I left any later. You know how it is.”

 

John nods and smiles, wishing Sherlock weren’t looming behind him. He feels a bit like he’s on a chaperoned date in the 1800s.

 

When they reach the area Mary had mentioned, there aren’t many people around, which John is grateful for. “I’ve brought a blanket,” John says, kneeling down to take it out of the tote bag. He pointedly ignores the skull in the bag and hopes Mary hasn’t seen it.

 

“Oh, perfect!” Mary says. She’s still smiling, and Sherlock is staring at her. John finds it a bit creepy, but Mary doesn’t seem to notice. John spreads the blanket out and sits, and Mary and Sherlock join him.

 

It’s odd to see Sherlock somewhere other than Baker Street, especially here, sitting stiffly atop a picnic blanket in the park. He stifles the urge to laugh and instead takes a bottle of wine out of the bag, and three glasses. He ignores the thought that it should only be two.

 

“Some wine?” he asks.

 

“I’d love some,” Mary says. Sherlock merely inclines his head in agreement, and John sighs, pouring out three glasses of wine.

 

“Cheers,” Mary says, holding out her glass. John clinks his against hers, and then Sherlock’s, but Sherlock makes no move to touch his glass to Mary’s. She doesn’t seem concerned.

 

“So, Sherlock, what is it you do, exactly? John hasn’t told me,” she says.

 

Sherlock takes a sip of wine and looks at her carefully. “I’m a bit of a consultant,” he says.

 

“Consultant?” she asks, laughing slightly. “And what do you consult about?”

 

“Sometimes, people have certain… _problems_. I have a specific skill set that allows me to help them.”

 

John groans. This is terrible.

 

“So, are you some kind of mob boss?” Mary asks with narrowed eyes.

 

“No, of course not,” Sherlock says. “Usually, it’s problems dealing with the occult.”

 

 _And there it is_ , John thinks. _She’s about to tell us both we’re mad._

 

“Oh,” Mary says. “You could have just said so.”

 

Sherlock smiles. It seems more genuine than the one he gave in the beginning, but there is something predatory about it. “Yes, I suppose I could have,” he says. “And you, Miss Morstan. Mid-thirties, single, lived alone since uni, a certain… _difficulty_ forming attachments to others, had a quiche for brunch today in a café near your home that you’ve recently discovered, your family requests no contact from you, and you have your own… _connections_ to the occult. Did I miss anything of importance?”

 

John sucks in a breath, the hand holding his wine glass frozen in midair. This is not okay. He’s just about to yell at Sherlock when Mary speaks.

 

“No,” she says, and she’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “You’ve got the most important bits down.”

 

“Mary,” John says uncomfortably. “I’m sorry; I told you, he doesn’t get out much-“

 

“It’s perfectly alright, John,” she says, her expression unreadable. “It’s all true. Does that bother you?”

 

“No, of course not,” John says quickly, shaking his head. “Of course not. It sounds…well, to be honest, it sounds a bit lonely, and I can relate to that.”

 

“Isn’t that touching,” Sherlock remarks, and John turns to glare at him.

 

Mary giggles, and John turns to her in surprise. “Sorry,” she says. “It’s just – you two are rather close, aren’t you? And don’t worry, John, it’s really not lonely. It’s fine.”

 

John takes a long sip of his wine. “We’re really not close,” he says in annoyance. Sherlock smiles.

 

“You weren’t surprised when I said that my work involves the occult,” Sherlock says to Mary.

 

Mary shrugs. “It’s not a big deal,” she says.

 

“John is my assistant,” Sherlock says. “Is that a problem for you?”

 

“No,” she says, and John is looking back and forth between them, quite sure he might be missing a level of this conversation.

 

“John is quite familiar with the occult,” Sherlock continues.

 

John groans. “John is right here, and he can speak for himself,” he says.

 

“Don’t worry, John, I find the occult very interesting,” Mary says, reaching out and patting his arm. John can’t help but smile when she initiates the touch, and he feels a little rejuvenated. “Why do you have such an interest in it?” she asks.

 

“Oh,” John says, a little uncomfortable. “It’s –“

 

“He can see ghosts and spirits,” Sherlock interrupts. He’s watching Mary carefully. “Have you ever seen one?”

 

“No,” she says. “I haven’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m not certain they’re real.” She turns to John, frowning. “It must be very hard for you.”

 

John shrugs, something in his chest twisting. “It’s alright,” he says. He’s torn between a strange relief at Mary’s empathy, and anger at Sherlock for being so flippant about this part of John that, up until recently, has been a closely guarded secret.

 

“Ah, that reminds me,” Sherlock says, smiling. “We’ve brought a friend along.”

 

“A friend?” Mary asks in surprise, looking around expectantly.

 

“Yes, he’s in the bag. John, why don’t you get Billy out of there? He’s bound to be feeling a big claustrophobic by now,” Sherlock says.

 

“Is he your…your cat or something?” Mary asks.

 

“Sherlock,” John says, glaring at him. “ _No_.”

 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, voice too cheerful for the situation. “Honestly, John, you worry too much.”

 

“It’s not _fine_ ,” John says, hand twitching in anger.

 

“It _is_ ,” he says, reaching around John and grabbing the tote bag for himself. John groans and Sherlock reaches inside, pulling out the skull.

 

“Oh,” Mary says, her eyebrows shooting up towards her hairline. “That’s – that’s a skull.”

 

“Yes, good observation,” Sherlock says scathingly. “This is Billy, an old friend of mine.”

 

To John’s horror, Sherlock swivels the skull to face Mary. “Pleased to meet you,” Billy says. _So much for waiting for my okay_ , John thinks, even though he’s certain there are more important things he should be worried about, like the fact that his coworker is being introduced to his friend, the skull.

 

John buries his face in his hands, but to his surprise, Mary laughs, and he sneaks a look at her from behind his hands. Laughing is better than screaming, but this is _not_ going as he’d hoped it would.

 

“Right, okay,” Mary says, still chuckling. “Hello, Billy.” She reaches a hand out, and Sherlock passes the skull over to her. John watches from behind his hand as she examines the skull, smiling and seeming greatly amused.

 

“Quite a nice skull, isn’t it,” she remarks.

 

“Thank you!” Billy says, and he sounds proud.

 

“Mary, why are you-“

 

“It’s alright, John. Sometimes things happen that we can’t explain,” she says with a kind smile.

 

John tips back the rest of his glass of wine. This is mad.

 

\---

 

As they leave the park, John shushes all of Sherlock’s attempts at conversation until he’s quite sure they’re far enough away from Mary to not be overheard.

 

“Right, mind telling me what that was all about?” John finally asks, turning towards Sherlock, who appears unconcerned.

 

“We had dinner and wine with Mary,” he says, looking at John as if John is missing a brain. “Surely you know this already; you were there.”

 

John stops walking and just stares at Sherlock for a moment. “What…yes, you’re right, we had dinner and wine with Mary. And you just – you just told her _everything_ , didn’t you?”

 

Sherlock shrugs. “Don’t be dull, John. Not everything. I’m not sure why you seem so upset, anyway. She seemed quite happy and got on well with Billy. After the initial conversation, we had such pleasant, mundane chatter about completely inconsequential topics that you must have been pleased. She touched your arm quite a few times, too, didn’t she?”

 

John huffs out a breath. “Well, _yeah_ , but-“

 

“But nothing,” Sherlock interrupts. “Would you rather I didn’t tell her any of that and your entire relationship was built on falsehoods and half truths?”

 

“Well, _no_ , but-“

 

“Then what’s the problem? She seems to like you just as much now as she did before, wouldn’t you say? Only now, you have nothing to hide from her,” Sherlock says. He’s not looking at John; he’s looking up at the sky. It’s dark by now, and the crescent moon is peeking out from behind a cloud. “It’s quite nice out tonight, isn’t it?”

 

John sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. When Sherlock puts it that way, it really does seem like he’s acted in John’s best interests, and Sherlock is such a strange man that for him, perhaps that was his version of kindness…but John still feels strange about it. He doesn’t say anything; his feelings are too conflicted. He glances beside him at Sherlock, who’s still studying the sky. His expression is hard to read, as usual, but there’s something almost _wistful_ in it as he looks up, his angular features illuminated by the moon. Something softens in John, and he smiles.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s quite nice.”

 

\---

 

When they get back to Baker Street, Sherlock suggests another drink. He takes another bottle of wine from the fridge, grabs his long pipe, and tells John to bring the glasses and follow him. John is surprised when Sherlock heads towards John’s bedroom, and once inside, he throws the window open and climbs out onto the fire escape. He heads up the stairs and gestures for John to follow.

 

John glances down at the fast traffic below, but follows nonetheless, laughing a bit as he settles in beside Sherlock on the roof.

 

As Sherlock opens the wine and pours it in the two glasses, the sound of the wine filling the glass is gentle against the backdrop of London traffic, which feels far away from where they sit on the roof. John listens to the mix of sounds as he looks up at the sky, the moon clear even with the streetlights shining bright around them.

 

“Here,” Sherlock says, his deep voice cutting through the night air.

 

“Ta,” John murmurs, taking the glass from him.

 

Sherlock picks up his own, then holds it out towards John. “To the inevitable,” he says.

 

John snorts a bit, but clinks his glass against Sherlock’s. “The inevitable,” he repeats.

 

The wine is sweet, but complex and earthy. It’s a beautiful taste, one John’s never experienced. “This is good,” he says, looking at the glass curiously.

 

“Mm,” Sherlock says. “It was payment from a client. It’s made from a nectar you won’t find anywhere in this world.” He sets it down next to him and lights his pipe, inhaling softly, then letting the smoke drift lazily from between his lips.

 

John’s not sure what to make of that, so he drinks silently, savoring the flavor. “Where do you find it, then? The nectar?” he asks.

 

Sherlock smiles, looking up at the sky again, and not at John. Like before, the moonlight illuminates his cheekbones and the tip of his nose, winding its way into the highlights of his curls. After a moment, he turns to John, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles patiently and the moonlight shifts against his skin. Again, there’s something wistful in the expressive planes of his face, in the gentle lines around his eyes and the small but genuine smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “There are many worlds out there, John. And you’ve gotten a good start making yours, haven’t you?”

 

John feels confused, and he’s not sure it’s the wine’s fault. “You know, at least 70% of the time when you speak, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he confesses.

 

Sherlock laughs, a sudden burst of whimsy that takes John by surprise, and then he’s chuckling, too.

 

Sherlock takes a drink, swallows, and then turns to John. “You _will_ understand, though, John,” he says, voice uncharacteristically soft and fond. “It’s inevitable.”

 

**\--**

 

The next morning, John makes his way into the kitchen later than usual, a small headache blooming at his temples. He’s not surprised to see Sherlock lying dramatically on the couch, swimming in the luxurious fabric of his dressing gown, one arm thrown over his face.

 

“Oh, John, _finally_ ,” he says, picking up his arm to look at John, his voice rough with sleep.

 

“Don’t you have a bedroom?” John asks, grimacing at the sunlight streaming in the window.

 

“Of course I do,” Sherlock says. “But I woke up _ages_ ago. I need _tea_ , John. Tea and breakfast. This is _terrible_.”

 

John rolls his eyes and sets about making tea. “Hungover?” he asks.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock says. “It’s dreadful.”

 

“You could make tea yourself,” John says. “I know you’re capable.”

 

“But that’s what I have you for.”

 

John shakes his head and stares at the teakettle, too tired to do much else.

 

“A watched pot never boils,” Billy chimes from the mantle.

 

“Thanks for the wisdom,” John mutters, turning from the teapot and pulling out some bread to make toast. He pulls down a can of beans from the cabinet, too, and begins to make breakfast.

 

“Anytime, mate! I may miss drinking, but I certainly don’t miss the hangovers,” he continues. “You two look right miserable.”

 

“I’m not really that hungover,” John says, and it’s true. “Just tired.”

 

“Even the smallest hangover is terrible,” Sherlock moans from the couch.

 

“Remind me never to drink with you again. Your hangover moaning isn’t worth it,” John says, though he has to admit, it had been nice to drink with Sherlock, to see a more mellow and relaxed side of him. Sherlock intrigues John; he is mercurial, and it seems that just when John thinks he has a handle on exactly what Sherlock is like, Sherlock shows him something new.

 

The kettle whistles, and John pours their tea, bringing a cup to Sherlock, who miraculously revives to sit up and take it, sipping cautiously and then sighing, shoulders relaxing as he leans back into the couch.

 

“Oh, John,” Sherlock calls into the kitchen. “How do you feel about fortunetellers?”

 

John, who’s barely touched his tea, sighs. “Too early for this,” he calls back. “Hasn’t your recovery been a little too fast?”

 

“The miracle of tea,” Sherlock says. “Is breakfast ready yet?”

 

John shakes his head. Another day with Sherlock.

 

\---

 

Once they’ve had breakfast and showered, Sherlock tries again. “Come on, John, we’re going to see a fortuneteller,” he says.

 

“Why?” John asks. “Can’t you tell fortunes?”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Not in the same way as someone who’s dedicated solely to the practice. Besides, Mary mentioned star charts yesterday, didn’t she? You’d have something new to talk to her about.”

 

John smiles. “That's true,” he says. “She mentioned our signs were compatible.”

 

Sherlock scoffs. “That’s nonsense. You’d need much more data to determine that sort of thing. Exact time of birth, planetary positions…it’s why I’d never be a fortuneteller. There’s no room in my mind for that.”

 

“You seemed interested in the sky last night,” John says.

 

“I can appreciate the sky.” He sounds defensive and sulky, and John can’t help but smile. “But that doesn’t mean I need to waste space in my mind palace remembering such trivial details. They’re not relevant to me.”

 

“Sorry – mind palace?” John asks, sure he misheard.

 

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock says. “Where I store all relevant information in my mind, to be retrieved when necessary. It’s quite convenient, but there’s only so much space. It’s like a hard drive, John.”

 

“You – _what_?”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’ve explained it quite clearly, and I don’t like repeating myself. It’s tedious. Now, let’s go and see the fortuneteller.”

 

John just stares for a moment, then closes his eyes, resigned to never knowing what Sherlock is talking about. “Right,” he says.   “Anyway, I don’t think I need to see a fortuneteller.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, I think you do. Come on, then. We’ll see the one I consult. Ah, and we’ll need to bring something…perhaps some wine,” he says.

 

“You consult a fortuneteller?”

 

“Of course, I’m not sure why you’re surprised. Terrible things happen to those who attempt to divine their own futures,” Sherlock says. He takes John’s tote bag from the day before, puts a bottle of wine in it, and then grabs Billy. “Let’s go,” he says.

 

John sighs, wondering why it feels normal for him to go out for the day with a madman and a skull for company.

 

\---

 

They’re approaching a large building, a sign outside that says ‘Psychic,’ when Sherlock stops. He tilts his head, narrows his eyes, and stares at the building.

 

“Something wrong?” John asks.

 

Sherlock’s mouth twists in displeasure. “This isn’t right,” he says.

 

“Is it the wrong place?”

 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Not the wrong place. But it’s different.”

 

“Should we go home?” John asks, confused.

 

“No,” Sherlock says. He sounds a bit threatening, and John’s not sure what to make of it. “Let’s see what kind of fortuneteller is here now.”

 

He goes up to the door and opens it fearlessly, entering with a straight back as if he owns the building. John shakes his head and follows.

 

When they step inside, a woman is sitting in an armchair reading a magazine. She looks up in surprise, her delicate features illuminated by the sunlight streaming in the window. “Oh,” she says. “You’re here for a reading?”

 

“He is,” Sherlock says, pointing to John.

 

“Lovely, just take a seat then,” she says, gesturing to a couch opposite her. She stands up and sets the magazine aside, then grabs a clipboard, handing it to John. “Just fill this out then, won’t you?”

 

“Er, right, okay,” John says, taking the clipboard from her. He fills in his name, date of birth, and hometown, ignoring Sherlock, who is sitting stonily beside him, back ramrod straight, eyes trained on the fortuneteller. When John hands the clipboard back to the woman, Sherlock turns to the tote bag, taking out the skull. He places it on the couch beside him and then stares at the woman once more.

 

John looks at Sherlock questioningly, but Sherlock is staring only at the woman before them; as usual, John is left to guess at the motives for his strange behavior.

 

She smiles at Sherlock, tucking a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Will you be getting a reading, too?” she asks.

 

Sherlock shakes his head. “I’m just observing.”

 

“Normally, we don’t have observers, as things can be a little personal-“

 

“It’s fine,” John interrupts.

 

She glances at John for a moment, then nods at Sherlock. “Alright. That’s an interesting skull you have. Did you get that at the Halloween shop?”

 

“No,” Sherlock says, his voice silky and low, his hands folded in his lap.

 

John swallows. This is a dangerous Sherlock.

 

The fortuneteller looks a bit taken aback by his answer, but she nevertheless turns to John and smiles gently. “Don't be nervous,” she says.

 

John smiles. “That’s kind of you,” he says. “Much kinder than this guy,” he mutters at Sherlock.

 

“I can hear you,” Sherlock says quietly.

 

The fortuneteller laughs, but she still seems slightly disconcerted by Sherlock. “Anyway, shall we get started?” she says, and John can’t help but admire her tenacity.

 

“Yes, of course,” John says, apprehension flooding him, wondering what she’ll say.

 

Her demeanor changes, and she suddenly appears very serious. “An important male in your life passed away when you were very young,” she says.

 

John’s eyes widen. “Yes, yes that’s right,” he says. “My father.”

 

She nods. “And your mother…”

 

“Yes,” John said. “Her, too.”

 

“You had a very difficult childhood,” she says. “You’ve faced many hardships since you were young. You lived on your own for a long time, right?”

 

“Yes,” John said. “As soon as I was done with school.”

 

The fortuneteller nods. “You’ve always been very independent, and full of a strong spirit. You’re always looking forward, trying to do your best no matter what the situation.”

 

John considers that and smiles. He’d like to think it’s true.

 

“And you’re good at housework, aren’t you?”

 

John’s jaw drops a little bit. “Well, yes, I suppose,” he says, thinking of how often the cooking and cleaning are left to _him_ in 221B Baker Street. He glances at Sherlock, but Sherlock is watching the fortuneteller, his expression closed off and unreadable.

 

“You’re certainly not shy,” the woman says, “But you’re worried about a relationship right now.”

 

“Yes, well…”

 

Sherlock turns to him and arches a brow. “What is it?” he asks.

 

John glances at him, but ignores him.

 

“It’s alright,” the fortuneteller soothes. “You’re doing your best. As long as you continue being sincere and honest, things will work themselves out.”

 

“Sincere,” John muses.

 

“Problem?” Sherlock asks again.

 

John ignores him again.

 

“Are there any other worries you have?” the fortuneteller asks.

 

“Well, yes,” John says hesitantly.

 

“Is it difficult to talk about?” the fortuneteller asks.

 

“A bit, yeah.”

 

The fortuneteller smiles. “Don’t worry,” she says. “It will be fine. As long as you have courage, you’ll be able to face anything that comes your way.”

 

John frowns. “What do you mean?”

 

“If your thoughts are bleak all the time, everything around you will be bleak, too,” she says. “You need to make sure you keep your thoughts positive, and things will slowly resolve themselves. It might seem difficult now, but if you just stand there and wait, things will never get better.”

 

John frowns, feeling suddenly depressed. If things were that simple, he wouldn’t be here in the first place; he never even would have met Sherlock.

 

“Is there anything else you’d like to ask?” the fortuneteller asks, still smiling despite John’s sudden depression.

 

“No, tha-“

 

“I wonder what today’s weather will be like,” Sherlock suddenly interrupts, narrowing his eyes at the fortuneteller.

 

She smiles, picking up a newspaper on her side table and waving it a bit. “The paper says it’ll be clear all day. Nice weather we’ve been having recently, isn’t it?”

 

“I see,” Sherlock says, voice clipped. “That will be all. Come along, John.” He stands, pulling a ten-pound note out of his pocket and leaving it on the woman’s table. John gathers Billy and the tote bag and follows Sherlock out, sparing a small smile and nod for the woman.

 

“Honestly,” Sherlock says once they’re outside. “The nerve of that woman, calling herself a psychic.”

 

“I don’t think she was that bad,” John says, struggling to keep up with Sherlock’s angry, long-legged stride.

 

Sherlock stops abruptly and turns toward John. “She was terrible from the beginning,” he says.

 

John frowns. “I _was_ surprised that she thought Billy was just a toy from the Halloween store.”

 

Sherlock nods. “Exactly,” he says. “And that was just the start. Her opening line…very few people _haven’t_ lost a significant male family member at some point in their lives. Considering that you’re an adult, ‘early in your life’ is quite vague, too, isn’t it? And _you’re_ the one who confirmed that your father died young, and the same with your mother, and the fact that you lived alone. Once she knew all of that, it would be very easy for her to imagine that you faced a lot of difficulties growing up; most children who lose their parents do. As for your independence, that’s also easily extrapolated from the data you gave her.”

 

“That’s true,” John murmurs, thinking back to the discussion, frowning.

 

“As far as your strong spirit and determination, that’s in any beginner’s guide to astrology under the Aries section,” Sherlock adds. “And as for being worried about a relationship, who isn’t? She didn’t even specify what kind of relationship it is you may be worried about.”

 

“You’re right,” John says, annoyed at having been tricked by the woman.

 

“When she asked you if there was anything else bothering you, you were thinking of seeing spirits, correct?” Sherlock spares John a glance to observe his nod. “If it were that easy to be rid of them, you would have been rid of them long ago. Your thoughts aren’t gloomy and you’ve done nothing to attract the spirits beyond existing. She didn’t know what she was talking about, and she could never begin to imagine the sort of problems you face.”

 

John frowns, mulling over Sherlock’s words as they begin to walk again. He feels a bit foolish for having been taken in by the woman.

 

“I’ll take you to a real fortuneteller,” Sherlock says. He suddenly turns and goes down a side street, then crouches down where no one will see him.

 

“Er, Sherlock?” John says, following him down the alley and crouching down across from him.

 

Sherlock reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a red handkerchief. He drapes it over his hand and holds it out to John.

 

“Fold it in half,” he says.

 

“Okay,” John says, reaching out and doing as he is told.

 

“Once more,” Sherlock says, and John does so.

 

Sherlock sits on his knees in the alley, pulling a strange disc out of his jacket. It has some kind of runes drawn on it that John’s never seen before, and it’s about the size of Sherlock’s hand, making John wonder exactly what kind of pockets are inside his jacket.

 

“Sit down and hold out your hands,” Sherlock says. John does so without question, still staring at the strange disc. To his surprise, Sherlock lays it across John’s hands. It’s made of wood, but it’s light, and painted a glossy and deep purple, the symbols drawn in yellow and blue. It’s really quite beautiful. Sherlock holds the folded handkerchief above it and uses his free hand to draw a complicated pattern in the air over the handkerchief.

 

“That which is sought, they who are sought, the place we are seeking…That which searches, those who search, the place we must search…Guide us, that which flies, to the one we seek,” Sherlock murmurs, chanting what John knows must be some kind of spell. Sherlock’s eyes are focused on the handkerchief, and there’s an air of power around him similar to when he’d helped John after his spirit attack. John can’t help but stare at his face as he chants, but he looks away when Sherlock finishes and stands gracefully, his free hand still drawing patterns in the air above the handkerchief.

 

Suddenly, the handkerchief twists and rises of its own accord, taking on the shape of a butterfly, and John stands hurriedly, still holding the disc.

 

“Oh, a butterfly,” Sherlock says. He sounds pleased and he takes the disc from John, tucking it back into his jacket. “That means we’re close. Otherwise, it would have been a bird.”

 

John just stares with his jaw agape as the butterfly begins to fly.

 

“Come on, John, or we’ll lose track of it,” Sherlock says, hurrying down the alley to follow the cloth butterfly.

 

John blinks and follows. Their pace is a brisk walk at first, but then they break into a run when the butterfly suddenly charges forward, and John feels exhilarated, chasing after this strange butterfly through the outskirts of London with Sherlock. They turn corner after corner and John’s sure this can’t even be London anymore, but then the butterfly finally settles on a fencepost outside a small house. John pants heavily and watches as the fabric wings rustle, and when Sherlock approaches the butterfly, it loses all form and falls into a regular handkerchief again, drifting onto Sherlock’s palm.

 

“We’re here,” Sherlock says, gesturing towards the house. It’s very small, nothing special; it’s only one story, and seems to only have a few rooms inside. There’s no sign, or anything to distinguish it from any other house.

 

“Here?” John asks, out of breath from running, still trying to absorb the fact that Sherlock’s handkerchief just became a butterfly and is now a handkerchief again. “Isn’t this just a house?”

 

Sherlock smiles, heading up the small pathway to the door. “Things aren’t always as they seem,” he says.

 

Before they’ve even gotten halfway up the path, the door opens and a young woman comes out. She smiles when she sees Sherlock, tucking her mousey brown hair behind her ear bashfully.

 

“Sherlock! You’ve come!” she says, her nose crinkling a bit as she smiles.

 

Sherlock smiles and takes a step forward, taking her by the shoulders and kissing her cheek. She blushes, her fair skin turning pink as soon as he’s close to her. “Of course, Molly,” he says. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

 

“Yes, it has,” she says, then turns toward John. She frowns for a moment and takes a step towards him. “Oh, you’ve certainly got a lot to worry about, don't you? With so many… _things_ following you around all the time.”

 

John stares for a moment, then turns to Sherlock. “Have you told her about me?” he asks.

 

“When would I have had the time for that?” Sherlock questions, arching one eyebrow.

 

“Right,” John murmurs, turning back to the woman, Molly. “Er, sorry, hello.”

 

She smiles at him, then peers at the tote bag he’s holding. “And who’s in there?” she asks.

 

Startled, John pulls out Billy, holding him in front of Molly.

 

“Hello, what’s your name?” Molly asks.

 

“Billy,” he says. He sounds pleased. “Nice to meet you.”

 

“Nice to meet you, too,” she says with a smile. She turns to Sherlock. “Quite the group you’ve brought. Why don’t you come in?”

 

She gestures towards the house, and Sherlock and John follow, Sherlock sending John a grin when he catches his eye.

 

“Take your time,” Molly says, gesturing towards the living room. “I’ll be right there.” She disappears behind a closed door, and Sherlock and John head to the living room, sitting together on the couch.

 

“Now you’ll get to see a real fortuneteller,” Sherlock says. He reaches over John and takes Billy, settling him on the couch on his other side.

 

Molly enters a moment later, carrying a large instrument in her hands. It’s like nothing John’s ever seen before. She carefully sets it down on the table. In the center is a large basin filled with sand, hung by wires from a jewel on top. Hanging from the jewel is a pendulum, the tip of which is pointed, just touching the sand in the basin. On either side of the basin are handles, connected by a long piece of wood which runs under the basin and connects to the jewel on top.

 

Molly smiles, turning the instrument so that one handle is directly in front of John and one is in front of her, and she sits in the armchair across from John.

 

“What’s your name?” she asks him.

 

“John Watson,” John says. “Do you need that to tell my fortune?”

 

Molly giggles and hides it behind her hand. “No, no, nothing like that,” she says. “It’s just easier to know what to call you. Put your hand on the handle,” she says, putting her own on the one close to her. She rests her hand palm down, and John carefully copies her movements on his side of the table.

 

As he watches, Molly closes her eyes. “It’s a nice name, though, John Watson. Your father’s.”

 

John stares at her, mouth slightly open, then turns to Sherlock. “Don’t I need to tell her what I want to know?” John asks.

 

“No,” Sherlock says, eyes trained on Molly while she works. “You don’t need to tell her anything. She already knows exactly what you want to know, probably better than you do, and she’ll tell you no more and no less.”

 

“Right,” John says, watching the strange instrument. The pendulum has begun to move, though neither of them are doing anything to push it, and it’s creating swirls in the basin of sand. They don’t make sense to John, not yet.

 

“Your parents are quite peacefully resting. Don’t worry about them,” Molly says, the atmosphere immediately changing to something intimate and serious. Her voice is warm, but her eyes remain closed. “It was a terrible accident they died in, wasn’t it? But, they died to protect you, and they’re at peace now.”

 

She pauses, and John’s watching her with a pounding heart, his hand trembling on the handle where it rests. Her words are unexpected, and he doesn’t doubt their integrity for even a second. Vaguely formed memories of parents he didn’t really know flash through his mind, his heart twisting in his chest.

 

“They’re quite happy with the man you’ve become, and they’re not in any pain,” she adds, smiling.

 

“Really?” John asks, his voice soft and gruff. “That – that’s good.”

 

“Yes,” she says as Sherlock watches, legs crossed and eyes now trained on John. Outside, rain begins to fall, the sound blending with the gentle scratching of the pendulum’s tip in the sand. “But you’re very worried, John, aren’t you? About the ghosts and spirits that follow you.”

 

John swallows. “Yes,” he says.

 

“But there should have been…” Her voice trails off when suddenly the pendulum stops moving, and she opens her eyes, looking into the basin. “Oh,” she says simply, taking in the pattern drawn in the sand. John looks, too, and he’s surprised to see a butterfly.

 

“So that’s what brought you to me,” Molly says, smiling. “A butterfly signifies the start of a journey. A metamorphosis and a transformation.” She looks at John carefully. “Yours has already begun, hasn’t it,” she says. Her smile is soft.

 

“You’re worried about a woman, too, one you seem to think is wonderful,” she continues. “But stop trying to figure out your future. Just let what’s meant to happen happen. And then, of course, you have a new friend. A man. One you fight with quite a bit, don’t you? But your relationship will only grow from this point on.”

 

John’s heart is still racing, but he can’t help but shoot Sherlock an annoyed glance at that proclamation. After all, there’s only one new male friend in his life. Sherlock grins at him and John rolls his eyes.

 

Molly smiles as she watches them, but it’s a bit sad, which makes John frown a bit. “Anyway, that’s pretty much all you wanted to know, isn’t it?” She pulls her hand away from the instrument, and John does the same.

 

“Thank you,” John says. He’s still trying to process all that she’s said, and he feels a bit overwhelmed. “That was – that was amazing. What do I owe you?”

 

She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

“I’ve brought some wine,” Sherlock says, pulling it out of the tote bag. “Please take it.” He hands it to Molly, who smiles, examining the bottle.

 

“This is wonderful, thank you,” she says, and then glances outside, where the rain is still falling. “Don’t worry,” she adds. “It’ll stop by the time you leave. By the way, Sherlock, a butterfly…your trademark, isn’t it?”   She gestures towards a scroll on the wall.

 

Sherlock glances towards the familiar paper and nods, his expression hard to read.

 

John looks at it. In a barely legible but quite elegant hand, it reads, “The present world is dream. Dreams at night are truth.” Under it, there is no name, but a butterfly, drawn carefully with only one stroke of a pen.

 

Molly smiles. “Would you like some tea?”

 

\---

 

Sure enough, by the time they leave, the sky is clear, and the moon is reflected in the puddles they walk through on their way out to the main road.

 

“I almost wish she would’ve told me more,” John says, his hands in his pockets.

 

Sherlock smiles. “No, she told you all you needed to know. Any more would have been dangerous and irresponsible. The wrong information can seriously alter the path someone chooses to take. That’s why you needed to see a real fortuneteller after that fake this afternoon.”

 

“Still, it would’ve been nice to hear more about Mary,” John muses, looking up at the sky as he walks.

 

“That’s not allowed,” Sherlock says. “The things you think you want to know are exactly the things the fortuneteller can’t tell you. It would alter the path you’re destined to take. It’s what’s so dangerous about people like the first fortuneteller, pretending to be able to do things they’re not. Not to mention, it’s disrespectful of them, acting like they can do something someone else takes so seriously when they’re doing nothing but harm.”

 

John blinks, a bit taken aback by Sherlock’s vehemence. “So you believe in destiny, then?”

 

Sherlock turns to John with a smile, his vehemence gone for the moment. “In a way,” he says. “But I also believe in the significance of each moment in this world, and its ability to change what we think must be.”

 

“I think that falls into the 70% of what you say that I don’t understand,” John says.

 

Sherlock snorts. “Don’t be dull, John, of course you understand. You just don’t want to think about it.”

 

John smiles. “Molly seems to like you quite a lot,” he says after a moment.

 

“Hmm,” Sherlock says.

 

John’s smile widens. “Do you like her?”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Honestly, John, I don’t know why you’d even ask me that. I respect her talents as a fortuneteller. That’s all.”

 

“She respects a lot more about you,” Billy’s muffled voice says from inside the tote bag. John snickers.

 

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock says.

 

“That reminds me,” John says. “That quote on the wall, the one about dreams. What was that all about?”

 

Sherlock glances at him. “It was a gift from me to Molly after one of the first times I consulted her.”

 

“Oh,” John says, wondering if perhaps there was something more to their relationship than he suspected. He frowns, wondering why that thought seems to bother him.

 

“Molly doesn’t expect payment of any kind,” Sherlock says. “But I know the importance of maintaining balance, so I make sure to keep our interactions level. Otherwise, the consequences could be terrible.”

 

“What does it mean, the quote?”

 

“It means exactly what it says,” Sherlock murmurs, looking up at the sky. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

 

John’s not sure what to make of that, but that’s not exactly a novelty with Sherlock. He smiles, following Sherlock down the street. “Want to go for dinner? I don’t think we have anything to cook.”

 

Sherlock smiles. “Sure.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is surprised to find out about one of Sherlock's rather unexpected hobbies.

A few days later, John is frowning at the newspaper, trying to complete the daily crossword with his morning cup of tea, when Sherlock comes into the living room wearing a white polo shirt and black, loose-fitting athletic pants, zipping a duffel bag and adjusting the straps as he slings it over his shoulder.

“John,” Sherlock says. “Get dressed. I have an archery tournament.”

John looks up from the paper and takes in Sherlock’s attire, his brow furrowed and his mouth slightly open. “Archery?” he asks. “You – of course you have an archery tournament. Archery.”

Sherlock pauses, hands stilling on the duffel bag. “Problem?” he asks, one brow arched.

John blinks. “No, no, of course not. Just…archery. A bit of a rare hobby, don’t you think?”

Sherlock smiles. “I do typically have rare interests,” he says. “And there’s more to archery than meets the eye.”

“Right, of course there is,” John mutters. “Anyway, I was meeting Mary for lunch today.”

“Is that so?” Sherlock asks. He phrases it more like a statement than a question, and he doesn’t sound surprised. “Invite her, then. She can meet you there. Sounds like a lovely date, doesn’t it?”

John sighs, resigned. “A lovely date typically wouldn’t include you,” he says. “But I guess a tournament is important. I’ll text her and get dressed, shall I?”

\--

“You know, you don’t seem like the type to enter a competition,” John remarks later, from where he sits beside Sherlock in the taxi headed for the athletic center. 

“And why is that?” Sherlock asks, turning away from the window to look at John.

“I don’t know,” John says with a shrug. “You don’t seem to care about other people’s approval.”

“A competition isn’t always about other people’s approval,” Sherlock points out. “Perhaps it’s about my own goals.”

John frowns thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” he says. “It still seems weird to me.”

Sherlock smiles. “As usual, John, you show that you are not a complete idiot.”

“So you don’t like competing?” John asks, unsure if he should be offended and ignoring Sherlock’s statement.

“Not particularly, no. I don’t care whether I win or lose, but sometimes, winning has certain side effects that are particularly useful,” Sherlock says. As usual, John’s left to puzzle out the meaning of his words, and Sherlock turns back to the window, conversation clearly over.

\--

John’s not surprised that Sherlock is beyond adept at archery. The first few rounds have many competitors shooting at once, and the less-skilled people are eliminated quickly. Finally, though, it’s down to the final twenty competitors, and of course, Sherlock is one of them.

“He’s really something, isn’t he?” Mary says as they wait for the next competitor to start.

“Yeah, to be honest, I had no idea he did archery until this morning,” John admits. “It was a shock to see him wearing anything besides a suit or a dressing gown. He’s got no in between, this one.”

Mary laughs in agreement. “He’s certainly a bit quirky, isn’t he? But either way, he’s quite good,” she says. “I don’t think he’s missed the exact center of the target once.”

John ignores the jealousy swirling in his stomach and watches as the next competitor enters the performing area. It’s Sherlock, and everything about him is completely different from the other athletes. 

He walks with poise and purpose, his eyes never straying from the target as he walks across the platform. His body is relaxed, like he’s merely walking down the street, and yet his posture clearly holds power and confidence. He doesn’t rush, and yet he doesn’t linger; he is self-assured, and the entirety of the audience seems to notice it. 

Calmly, Sherlock raises his bow, and the athletic center is silent. He sets his arrow, and the sound of creaking wood as he pulls it back echoes through the vast hall. And then, calmly, as if he’s doing nothing that requires any effort or concentration at all, he lets go, and the arrow shoots directly into the center of the target. 

“Amazing!” Mary says from beside John, her bright eyes on Sherlock. John can’t help but agree. The crowd is cheering, but they grow silent again when Sherlock draws his bow once more. 

He shoots two more times, a total of three, and they fall in a neat cluster at the center of the target. He’s the clear winner of the competition, and John grins as he cheers. He wonders if there’s anything Sherlock can’t do, because it doesn’t seem that way.

\--

Later, when the competition is over and Sherlock has won, John’s phone buzzes with a text. “Too crowded. Meet me outside, southeast corner. –SH”

“Shall we?” John says to Mary, extending his arm.

She stares at it and there’s a brief moment, just a second too long, where John is left wondering if he’s made a mistake, but then she smiles and loops her arm through his. “I’ve never been to an archery tournament before,” she says. “It was actually pretty interesting.”

“Same,” John says, leading them through the crowd until they finally manage to reach the door of the athletic center and make their way to the southeast corner. “Of course, it’s not a surprise that Sherlock’s bloody brilliant at it,” he adds.

She laughs again, and John smiles when they see Sherlock up ahead. He’s wearing a suit once more, and his duffle bag over is slung over his shoulder.

“Sherlock!” John says. “Congratulations! You were amazing!”

Sherlock smiles at John, his eyes flicking over John and Mary’s intertwined arms quickly before going back to John’s face. “Naturally,” he says, and John raises his eyebrows. 

“It was really amazing,” Mary says. She steps away from John, pulling her arm away from his, and shakes Sherlock’s hand. “Congratulations, Sherlock,” she says.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, but his voice is different from when he’d responded to John. He sounds stiff and formal, and he eyes her for a moment before turning to John, his face changing to a smile. “That reminds me!” he says. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out the feathered end of an arrow, broken off from the rest of it. “The winning arrow,” he says. He steps closer to John and drops the arrow into John’s trouser pocket.

“Oi!” John says, indignant, jumping back from Sherlock’s hand. “What are you doing in my bloody trousers?”

Mary grins. “You two really are quite close, aren’t you?” she asks, eyebrows raised. 

John groans. “We’re really not,” he protests, as Sherlock smiles widely next to him. “Anyway, what do I want this broken arrow for?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I’m sure you’ll find a use,” he says, and the smile on his face says he knows exactly why John has the arrow. John sighs, knowing he has no choice but to wait and see what this is all about.

“I had a really lovely time,” Mary says suddenly. “But I should get going; it’s already gone two. John, I’ll see you at work on Monday, alright?”

“Oh,” John says, startled. “Yeah, alright, see you Monday, then.”

“Sherlock,” she says, inclining her head.

“Mary,” Sherlock intones, his face remaining perfectly polite.

“See you, then,” she says, giving a small smile and a wave before turning and going in the other direction.

Once she’s gone, Sherlock turns to John. “Did you have a nice time with Mary?” he asks.

“Yeah, I guess so,” John says, frowning.

“You don’t sound very confident,” Sherlock prods.

“It’s just – she’s quite lovely and kind, and sometimes it seems like she’s interested, but other times, it really doesn’t,” John admits. “But…it’s alright, really. I mean, I’m obviously interested in her, but if she just wants to be friends…well, that’s alright, I suppose.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock says. 

“Hmm? That’s all you have to say?” John asks, annoyed.

Sherlock shrugs. “I could give you more advice if you want to add it to the cost to your work,” he says.

“Oh, sod off,” John grumbles. 

Sherlock laughs. “Always so easy to rile up,” he comments.

“Like you’re not,” John says heatedly. “I just have to threaten to withhold tea.”

And then, they make eye contact, and they can’t help but giggle. 

\---

John is making his way home on his own later, Sherlock having disappeared to God knows where, and he’s thinking about what to get for dinner. Sherlock had told John in no uncertain terms that he required a suitable celebratory dinner that night, and though John despairs at being treated like some kind of 1950s housewife, he supposes Sherlock does deserve a nice dinner after performing so well at the tournament. 

He’s just mulling over what to bring home – curry? kebabs? – when he stops dead in his tracks. He’s not sure where it’s coming from, but he smells the most delicious Italian food he’s ever smelled. He feels himself salivating and his stomach rumbles at just the scent. Basil, oregano, tomatoes, spices – it’s warm and comforting, and without even thinking about it, he follows the smell, rounding a few corners and turning down a narrow, deserted street, and then he frowns. 

There’s a food cart up ahead, though it’s not by any means a busy street, so it’s a strange location for one. It’s a small, curtained off cart with a sign outside, illuminated by a string of light bulbs, that reads ‘Angelo’s.’ If it didn’t smell so delicious, John would turn around, given the strange location, but the smell is beyond enticing, so he takes a few steps forward, hesitating outside the curtain. He’s just reaching out to part the red cloth when he hears a rustling coming from beside him, and so he turns to look, and then freezes, eyes open wide and hand halfway to the cloth.

Standing before him is a small boy, maybe seven years old, with copper colored hair. He’s carrying a stack of dishes and staring at John, mirroring the same shock that John knows is on his face. It wouldn’t be so alarming except for the fact that the boy has the ears of a fox on top of his head and a large bushy tail rising up behind him. They stare for a moment, both equally as shocked as the other, and then the boy loses his footing, the dishes flying out from his grip. 

Quickly, John reaches out and grabs them, reflexes on high alert in his state of alarm, and he hands them back to the boy, his eyes not straying from the large ears growing out of the boy’s head.

“Thanks,” the boy says, his voice barely above a whisper, his cheeks flushing. He’s still staring at John with wide eyes when the curtain rustles open.

“Alright out there – oh! A human!”

John turns his head and then startles when he sees a large man, grinning in delight, with a set of ears and a tail that matches the boy’s.

“Er, you – are you…some kind of fox?” John asks, hoping it’s not offensive, but unable to not ask.

The man laughs. “Sure am,” he says. “It’s not often we get a human customer; you’ll have to pardon my boy. Come on in, then,” he adds, pulling the curtain open and gesturing John inside.

“Er, right, thanks,” John says, stepping into the little curtained off food stand. There’s a small counter with two stools next to a stove, and the smell inside is heavenly. It’s testament to how strange the past few weeks of his life have been that somehow, the idea of some kind of half man, half fox creature doesn’t send him running, and he resists the urge to laugh. He feels crazy enough as it is.

“I was just cooking up some chicken parmesan, how does that sound?” the man asks, tending to the food on the stove and glancing up at John.

“Oh – sounds lovely,” John says. He knows he’s staring at the man-fox, but he can’t help it, he really can’t. 

“The name’s Angelo,” the man adds, pulling a dish over to the stovetop. 

“John,” John replies. He remembers Sherlock’s advice about names, but certainly just his first name is okay. He glances beside him, and the little boy is back, staring at John again. When they make eye contact, the boy startles, flushing again, his tail twitching, but he keeps staring at John, eyes trained on a spot somewhere in the vicinity of John’s waist. 

Angelo glances up before he starts to dish food onto a plate for John. “Seems you’ve got something interesting in your pocket,” he says after taking in the direction of his son’s gaze. “Sorry about that.”

“My pocket?” John says with a frown, not sure what it could be. He stands up and rifles through for a moment – keys, loose change – and then he pulls out the end of the arrow Sherlock had put in there. “This?” John asks, holding out the arrow to the little fox boy.

The boy’s eyes light up and his tail twitches back and forth in excitement, and John smiles. “Go on, then, you can have it. It wasn’t even mine in the first place,” he says, holding it out to him. 

The boy’s eyes widen, and Angelo watches fondly. “Really?” the boy asks.

“Sure,” John says with a shrug, holding it closer to the boy.

“Thank you!” the boy says in an ecstatic rush, reaching out and taking it from John. He just looks at it for a moment, his eyes bright, and then runs off to a small chest of drawers in the back of the cart.

“Sorry about that,” Angelo says. “My boy likes to collect interesting treasures.”

“It’s no problem,” John says, sitting back down. As he watches, the boy opens a drawer and carefully puts the arrow inside, amongst a deck of strangely decorated cards and marbles with colorful gems floating inside. “It’s just a broken arrow.”

Angelo doesn’t say anything, but he puts a food of plate in front of John, whose eyes widen. “Thank you,” John says, reaching for his fork. He takes a bite, and the food seems to melt on his tongue. The flavor is unlike anything he’s ever eaten, and he closes his eyes for a moment to savor it. “It’s amazing,” he says.

Angelo chuckles. “I’m glad,” he says. “It’s not every day we get a human customer, let alone such a powerful one as you.”

“Powerful?” John asks, startled, once he’s swallowed his food. 

Angelo nods as he begins to clean some dishes. “You wouldn’t be able to see this shop if you weren’t,” he says. “And…you’re a friend of Sherlock’s, aren’t you?”

John pauses, his fork hovering in midair. “We – I’m his flatmate, and I guess his employee,” he says. He’s not quite sure how to describe their relationship.

Angelo smiles. “Ah. You must be quite special, then, to work with him.”

“Oh no, I don’t think so,” John says. “Mostly I just make tea and – oh Christ, dinner,” he groans.

Angelo looks amused. “Were you supposed to bring dinner home?” he asks.

John nods, forlorn, but continues to eat his own meal; it’s too delicious to stop.

“No problem,” Angelo says. He puts the remainder of the food he’d been cooking into a takeout container, and wraps it in a bright red cloth, a yellow crescent moon bright on the outside, as John hurriedly eats his dinner. “Take this,” he says. “And don’t worry about paying; it’s on me.”

“What – no! I’ll pay properly,” John says, swallowing quickly to protest.

Angelo shakes his head. “No. If anything, we owe you. That arrow you gave us is quite special.”

“It is?” John asks, brow furrowed.

Angelo nods. “It’s an evil crushing arrow. It’s full of highly concentrated spiritual energy. It will protect us for as long as we have it,” he says. “We’ll be in your debt for quite a while.”

John’s stunned for a moment, all of Sherlock’s actions of the day catching up to him, and he can’t wrap his mind around how much of this Sherlock knew would happen, and whether or not this is really Sherlock’s intention for the arrow – but then, Sherlock’s voice is in his mind, saying, “It’s inevitable, John,” and he stops worrying. 

“I hope you make good use of it,” John says with a smile. He chats with Angelo for a little while, the boy shyly making his way over and sitting on the stool beside John. John spares him a smile, but the boy blushes and turns away, ducking his head to hide a smile of his own. John finds him quite endearing, and he shares an amused grin with Angelo.

When he’s finally finished his food, he stands, taking the takeout box Angelo presses into his hands. “Thanks for dinner – it was delicious,” he says. Angelo’s son stands up and scurries behind the counter to stand next to his father, and the pair of them beam at him.

“Come again!” they say, waving, and then suddenly, without warning, John is standing alone in the middle of an empty intersection, surrounded by nothing but the dark night and a few flickering streetlights, no sign of the strange food cart anywhere around him. 

“What – was that a dream?” he mumbles to himself, wondering if he is indeed crazy – he did, after all, just have a conversation with a family of human foxes – but in his hand is the brightly wrapped takeout from Angelo. “What the bloody hell?” he says, staring at the bundle. He looks around again, but there’s no sign of the warm string of lights or the red curtain or the little fox family; all that surrounds him are dark, empty streets. He has no idea what’s just happened to him, and he wonders if he’s in some kind of shock – but then he thinks of Sherlock, placing that stupid arrow in his pocket in the first place, and he laughs.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft comes to Baker Street with an unusual job for Sherlock and John, and John learns a bit more about what exactly Sherlock is and what kind of magic he can do.

John’s shoulders are hunched underneath his umbrella as he tries to make himself as small as possible to avoid the rain coming down in sheets around him. It’s pouring, and it has been for days. He’s getting rather sick of it; it’s quite gloomy, and there tend to be more spirits out and bothering him on days like this.

Today, though, he’s been quite lucky on his walk home from work. There haven’t been any spirits so far, and so he’s feeling unaccountably cheery – that is, until a strange man suddenly steps in front of him, holding his hand in front of John in a ‘stop’ gesture.

John furrows his brow and looks at the man in annoyance. He’s wearing a three-piece suit and he’s looking at John with a smarmy sort of smile John can’t quite read. 

“Dr. Watson,” the man says neutrally. 

John starts at the use of his name and then looks away for a moment, surprised by his sudden urge to laugh at this strange turn of events. He knows he should probably be alarmed, but his life has become so strange that this seems almost normal, and so he looks back at the man in resigned amusement. “Yes, that’s me. Sorry, but do I know you?”

The man raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t seem to appreciate John’s response. “No,” he says. “But you should.”

John stares at him for a moment. There are many things he wants to say, and his mouth is half open, lots of them on his tongue, but after staring at the man for a moment, he just shakes his head again. “Right, yeah. Well, I’d really love to get out of this bloody rain, so if you don’t mind, I’ll just be on my way,” he says, giving the man a tight smile and moving to walk past him.

The man raises one eyebrow in consternation and it manages to be imperious enough to give John pause. John’s not the sort to be so easily intimidate by a raised eyebrow, but something about this particular man is very intriguing. John pauses and looks at the man, raising his own eyebrows in response.

“You should be thankful for the rain,” the man says. “Without it, where would your rivers be?”

John just stares again. “I’m going to take a wild guess here, but are you a friend of Sherlock Holmes?”

The man snorts. “Friend? Just how many friends do you imagine he has?”

“Fair point,” John concedes. “But do you know him?”

“Yes,” the man says. “In fact, he considers me something of an enemy. He’s quite melodramatic, actually, so perhaps archenemy would be a better descriptor.”

John considers how unassuming this man is, with his male pattern baldness, three piece suit, squinty eyes, and ornate umbrella, and wonders exactly who he’s dealing with.

“Right, archenemy,” John says, not curious enough to stick around this man. “Have a nice day, then,” he adds, looking pointedly at the man before walking past him. The man, however, follows him.

“Everyone’s talking about it, you know,” the man says casually.

“About what?” John asks irritably, stopping to turn around in spite of himself. He glances around him to see if people are looking at him strangely, but no one is, so he has to assume this man is not a ghost, but he can’t be sure. He doesn’t seem particularly dangerous, but spirits can be deceiving, he knows.

“About Sherlock’s new…employee,” he says. “Live-in employee with a significant amount of power to whom Sherlock shows an unusual amount of…care.”

John doesn’t know what to make of this. It’s the second time someone’s referred to him as powerful, and he’s not sure why. He ignores it for now. “Who is ‘everyone’?” he asks instead.

The man arches an eyebrow again. “Those in the spirit world,” he says. “I thought you would be much more intelligent than this, to be honest.”

John huffs a sigh. “The spirit world. Of course. And of course some random bloke I’ve never met who’s apparently part of the spirit world is going to tell me how thick I am, right. Listen, I don’t know you, but I can see why Sherlock calls you his archenemy. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going home, and I’m quite sure you’re not invited,” he says, speeding up his walk. The rain seems to pick up, and he tightens his grip on his umbrella, but the main keeps up his fast pace.

“On the contrary, Sherlock told me where to find you,” he says.

John looks at him in disbelief. “Aren’t you his archenemy? Why is he sending his archenemy to meet me?”

The man rolls his eyes. “Sherlock is a rather peculiar man, isn’t he? Who knows what goes on inside that head of his. Although, you seem to be the best one to answer that question, don’t you? I’d be willing to give you some…compensation if you’d give me some information about Sherlock in exchange,” he says.

“Absolutely not,” John says firmly. 

The man huffs in frustration. Up ahead, John can see his apartment, and he is grateful, to say the least, that he can get out of both the rain and this frustrating conversation.

John attempts to close the door before the man can follow him in, but the man reaches out and grabs it before John can slam it in his face. John glares at him, but the man just gives him a smile, so forced and polite that John just snorts and shakes his head; Sherlock’s acquaintances are nothing if not interesting. 

As John carelessly tosses his umbrella in the umbrella stand just inside their door, the man carefully folds his and carries it with him as they go up the stairs. Sherlock is playing the violin inside, and it sounds atrocious. He’s mostly making disjointed screeches, and John sighs. He doesn’t need this, not right now. 

When he opens the door, Sherlock turns to him, violin still tucked under his chin. His face looks vaguely apologetic for just a second until the man walks in behind him, and then Sherlock’s face is stony and he plays louder.

“Honestly, Sherlock,” the man says. “You can stop it with the racket now.”

Sherlock huffs and makes one last defiant screech in the man’s direction before turning and putting his violin away.

“Oh, thank God,” Billy says from the mantle. He sounds distressed. 

“You don’t even have ears,” the man says.

“Hey!” John and Sherlock protest at the same time. 

“Apologize,” John adds, wondering when he became so protective of the stupid skull.

The man looks between the two of them, then sighs and looks at Billy, making a face of pained concession that looks quite fake in John’s opinion. “My…apologies,” he murmurs.

John snorts out a laugh and goes straight to the teapot.

“Now, about our agreement,” the man says to Sherlock.

“We have no agreement,” Sherlock says sulkily. The tone makes John smile, just a little.

“Quite,” the man says. “About my agreement with your…employee.”

“What?” John asks, turning around abruptly. “What?” He looks between the two of them rapidly. The man is smiling his smarmy smile, and Sherlock is just staring at him with a murderous expression. Neither are looking at John.

“Yes, your agreement with my…John,” Sherlock says.

“Sorry, your John?” John asks, abandoning the tea to stand in the entryway to the living room.

“I will, of course, pay him adequately. It would be much easier if you would take the job yourself-”

“Out of the question,” Sherlock says, his voice near a hiss. He stalks towards John, but turns towards the man for a moment. “Stay there, Mycroft,” he says. “Don’t move a muscle.”

Sherlock herds John into the kitchen, so John goes back to the abandoned, half-filled teapot and continues to fill it.

“John,” Sherlock says. “You’ll have to do a job for him.”

“Who is he?” John asks, ignoring the job aspect of this for a moment.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “He governs the rain,” he says. “And he’s having a bit of a temper tantrum about a hydrangea right now.”

John stares at the teapot for a moment. The water is overflowing, but he ignores it until Sherlock’s words sink in and he turns to him. “What?” he says. “He – what?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Don’t be dull, John. Keep up. He has a job for you; you have to deal with a hydrangea.”

“A hydrangea,” John repeats, turning back to the teapot and pouring off the excess before grabbing a dishtowel and drying off the pot, then putting it on the heat. 

“They’re sacred plants to the rain spirits,” Sherlock explains, as if this is in any way something John is meant to accept.

“Right,” John says. “So that…man is a spirit.”

Sherlock snorts. “Mycroft, John wants to know if you’re a spirit,” he calls into the living room. 

John jumps when he’s suddenly drenched in a flash of rain, staring down at his now sodden clothes and the new puddle on the floor and blinking in surprise. “What the bloody-”

“Don’t be crass; of course I’m not a spirit,” Mycroft calls back. He sounds bored, but when John glances back at him, he looks like a snake ready to strike.

“Er, right, not a spirit then,” John says. He glares at Sherlock. “Thanks a lot, mate,” he adds. “Some kind of demon, then?” He’s half joking, just making a comment on the man’s personality, but Sherlock nods. 

“In a manner of speaking. A bit higher level, but yes,” he says.

John arches a brow. “And you know him, how?”

“We go back many years,” Sherlock says. He seems uncomfortable. “He likes to consider himself a sort of…older brother figure, but I assure you, he is anything but.”

John considers the fact that Sherlock has a demon who governs the rain as a ‘sort of older brother figure’ and that he also considers him his archenemy. He gives Sherlock a long, assessing look, but Sherlock fidgets and pulls down two teacups from the shelf. 

“If you’re willingly getting teacups down, you must really not want to talk about it,” John says.

“Nothing to talk about,” Sherlock says. “He’s not worth the breath.”

“Right,” John says, eyebrows raised. “Anyway, a cup for him, yeah?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Ugh, you’re so bloody British, why does that fat git get a cup?”

John sighs and reaches in front of Sherlock, giving him a pointed look and pulling down a third cup. 

“If you two are done, I believe we have a job to discuss,” Mycroft calls from the living room.

John sighs, resting his hand on the counter and staring down for a minute, letting out a long exhale. “Right, I’m doing a job for this bloke,” he says.

“You will be compensated,” Sherlock says, just as the teapot whistles. 

John shakes his head and makes three cups of tea. His life gets stranger every day.

\--

“I’m sorry,” John says a while later, glad he’s finished his tea because he’s quite sure he would’ve spit it out had he still been drinking it. “Did you just say we need to go to Mary’s first?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes,” he says. “And since certain…beings feel the need to create an environment as unseemly as their personalities, we’ll take a shortcut to avoid the rain,” he adds, giving Mycroft a dirty look. “Come, John,” he says, standing up and heading towards his bedroom.

“Oh, should I leave you alone for this?” Mycroft asks, raising one eyebrow.

Sherlock doesn’t pause or look back as he speaks, just walks ahead and assumes everyone will go with him. “Unfortunately, you should follow,” he tells Mycroft. John looks between the two of them, wonders why they’re all going to Sherlock’s bedroom, and stands up with a resigned sigh, following Sherlock and ignoring the look on Mycroft’s face, who follows along looking much too pleased with himself.

It’s the first time John’s been in Sherlock’s room, and he’s not surprised that the man’s bed is luxurious, large and inviting with sheets that look more expensive than John’s entire wardrobe, but Sherlock goes straight to his closet and opens the door. 

It’s a rather large closet, and on the left side are countless suits, hanging neatly on their hangers, but on the right is another door.

“After you, John,” he says with a smile, opening the door and gesturing John through.

John gives Sherlock a distrustful look, but Sherlock only smiles wider, which makes John less and less secure about whatever it is they’re about to do. He goes through the door apprehensively, and Sherlock follows him through to a strange, dark area.

“Go on,” Sherlock says when John stops and turns to look at him questioningly. Sherlock’s features are in shadow, but he looks encouraging, so John walks on even though he can’t see anything around him; he appears to be in some kind of dark void. Sherlock steps up beside him, leaving Mycroft to trail in their wake. “This is much more pleasant than the rain, isn’t it?” Sherlock asks.

“You’re mad, aren’t you,” John says as a response. He doesn’t mean to, especially not with Mycroft walking behind them, but he stays close to Sherlock. There’s a strange feeling in here, an ominous cold that makes John feel like if he strays off the path, legions and legions of spirits will take him in. He doesn’t like it. 

Luckily, they only walk for a moment before Sherlock says, “Ah, this will do,” and reaches out, opening a door he seems to create out of thin air. He gestures John through first again, and John goes, stopping in shock when he realizes they are in an alleyway across from Mary’s house, which he’s seen only in pictures when she’d moved there the week before. He stumbles when Sherlock steps through and walks right into his back, but quickly moves forward.

“It’s generally not a good idea to stand in doorways,” Sherlock says to John, brushing off the front of his coat.

John just stares at him and opens his umbrella as Mycroft appears beside them. When he looks behind him, of course there is no door. 

“If you boys are ready…?” Mycroft says. Sherlock sneers and charges ahead, and John sighs and follows.

They turn the corner and Mary’s house is in front of them, a tiny one-person house with some cheery potted plants outside. Sherlock walks right up the walkway and rings the doorbell. John runs a hand over his face from where he stands beside him, hoping Sherlock doesn’t mortify him, but at the same time, knowing it’s inevitable.

“John! Sherlock! This is unexpected,” Mary says as she opens her door with a smile. It turns to a confused frown as her eyes settle on Mycroft. “Is everything alright?” 

“Hello,” John says, smiling warmly. “Sorry about this, we just-”

“We need something of yours,” Sherlock says. 

“Something of mine?” Mary asks in confusion.

Sherlock nods. “Yes. Actually, if you don’t mind, your hair ribbons would be perfect.”

Mary reaches up and touches the ribbons tied around her head like a headband. “These?” 

Sherlock nods and John looks between them helplessly. “Sorry,” he says again. “I don’t-”

Mary shakes her head. “It’s no problem,” she says. She reaches up and unties a bow at the nape of her neck, one John can’t see from here, and then pulls out two ribbons, one pale blue and one white. They are twisted together, and Sherlock takes them with a smile.

“Thank you,” he says. “These will do, won’t they, Mycroft?”

Mycroft is staring at Mary with a strange expression of disgust on his face. He steps forward, shoving between John and Sherlock, and stands directly in front of her, meeting her eyes for a moment.

“Oi,” John says, but Sherlock puts a hand on his arm to restrain him. John looks at him in confusion, but he shakes his head.

Mary gives Mycroft a small smile. “Will that be all?” she asks. She sounds inexplicably sad, and Mycroft shudders when she speaks to him. He stares at her a moment longer, then makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat and turns on his heel, walking quickly back out to the road.

“Er, sorry,” John says again. He wonders if he will ever stop apologizing.

“It’s no trouble,” Mary says. She gives him a soothing smile. “No trouble at all. I hope my ribbons come in handy for whatever it is you’re doing,” she adds, then gives a tremulous smile and closes her door.

“Thank you!” John calls to her, feeling helpless, and Sherlock takes him by the elbow and steers him away.

“What was that all about?” John asks in anger when he reaches Mycroft at the end of the walkway. 

Mycroft looks at him for a moment, then turns to Sherlock. “I thought he was intelligent, Sherlock.”

“He is,” Sherlock hisses. He seems angry, and John feels a bit of pride for a moment that Sherlock is defending him. “But he relies far too much on emotions,” he adds, and any pride John had felt a moment before deflates and turns into annoyance.

“Ah,” Mycroft says, looking at John in a knowing way that makes John throw his hands up in frustration and turn away from them, walking in the other direction. 

“I can hear you,” he calls back to them. He shakes his head. The payment for this job better be good.

\--

“This is it, then?” John asks, brow lifted as he looks at Sherlock questioningly.

Sherlock is standing beside him, eyeing the hydrangea warily. “Yes,” he says.

As far as John can tell, it’s a regular hydrangea; light blue in color, big and bushy and thriving in the rain, which is still coming down heavily.

“What am I supposed to do?” John asks, turning back to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s looking at the hydrangea rather than John. “You’re marginally clever, John; think.”

John gives him an annoyed look and then turns back to the hydrangea. “Okay, it’s a hydrangea,” he says. He stares a minute longer, but he truly can’t think of what he’s supposed to do. “That’s all,” he says.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You see, but you don’t observe,” he says.

“Well, what am I supposed to be observing?” John asks, annoyed, the sound of the rain and the wetness in the soles of his shoes starting to get on his nerves.

“I can’t tell you, or it will mess up the balance with Mycroft,” Sherlock says. “Just…look closely. Observe.”

John sighs, looking away in frustration then turning back to the plant. He glances at Sherlock, who makes a vaguely downward gesture with his hands, and John gives him a questioning look to which he rolls his eyes and looks away. John sighs and kneels in the wet muddy ground, looking closely at the lower part of the plant.

To his surprise, the flowers at the bottom are red. “I’ve never seen a red hydrangea,” he muses, glancing up at Sherlock. 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, and his face is closed off. He’s watching John with a sort of apprehension John doesn’t like.

John frowns and turns back, noticing that the lower and deeper into the plant he looks, the more red the plant becomes. He reaches in towards the center of the plant and frowns in alarm when he feels something brush his wrist. He pulls away, but something wraps around his wrist and pulls him back. His eyes widen in alarm and he sees that it’s a branch, and he looks up towards Sherlock in fear, but before he can catch a glimpse of his face, John is somewhere else.

\--

John is alone, and it’s very cold. It’s no longer raining, but there isn’t any sky from which the rain could fall. There’s no ground, either, and no scenery. He’s in a void of grey. His feet are standing on what appears to be a flat surface, but it’s just grey like everything around him. 

He’s not scared, not really. He feels a strange sort of disconnect he can’t explain. He frowns and begins to walk forward, looking around and hoping to see something besides grey, but it doesn’t happen.

He falters, though, when a strange smell assaults his senses. He chokes and covers his face with his hand, his eyes watering. He walks forward a bit more, into the smell, and he slowly starts to get used to it. He takes his hand away, and then pauses when he hears the faint sound of someone crying.

His eyes widen in alarm; someone else is here? The voice sounds like a little girl, and he hesitates for only a moment before running forward. He sees a lone figure up ahead, a small girl with brown pigtails. She’s curled up in a ball, sobbing her heart out. He wonders why she is here alone.

“Hello,” he says, keeping his voice gentle as he approaches.

She looks up at him, and her eyes are big and blue and full of tears. She sniffles, but doesn’t take her eyes away from him. He kneels down next to her, using his gentlest doctor face. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” he asks, trying to project warmth and sympathy.

She rubs at her face for a moment. She can’t be more than eight or nine, and her face is blotchy and wet with tears. “I can’t get there,” she says, choking on the words. “But I have to hurry.”

John frowns. “Are you lost?” he asks. “Do you know where your house is?” It occurs to him that her house can’t be here, but that doesn’t seem important now. He pushes the thought aside, focusing on the distress of the little girl in front of him.

Her chin wobbles, but she steels herself for a moment, keeping the sob from escaping. She shakes her head. “I know where it is, but that’s not where I’m going,” she says. “I don’t want to go alone.”

After she says that, she can’t hold it in anymore, and her frail shoulders shake with sobs. She’s wearing a thin sundress, light blue like her eyes, and John feels something twist in his chest, sympathy for her plight. He bites his lip and opens his arms, and she doesn’t hesitate to burrow into him, wrapping her little arms around his back and burying her face in his neck. She’s small and fragile against him, and he feels the need to protect her, to help her, to keep her safe.

He rubs her back, and slowly her sobs subside. She pulls away a little bit, just enough to look him in the eye. “Do you think I’m a sissy?” she asks.

“A sissy? No, why would you be a sissy?” John smiles at her and wipes a tear away from her eye with his thumb. She leans into his touch.

“Because I’m scared,” she says, and her eyes fill with tears again.

He shakes his head and smiles kindly at her. “No, of course not. It’s okay to be scared, especially when you’re all alone in somewhere as dark as this.”

“I don’t think it would be so scary if you came with me,” she says. Her voice is a whisper now, and she’s looking up at him as if she’s afraid he’ll chastise her. “Will you help?”

John stares at her for a moment, unsure. His thoughts feel a bit cloudy, and the only thing he can feel is empathy for this girl, for how sad and lonely and scared she is. She pulls away from him and takes his hand, and he finds that his fingers, so much larger than hers, wrap around her hand in such a natural way that he can’t help but follow when she tugs on him. They’re walking together, and it’s almost like family, he thinks, something he’s never really experienced before.

“I’m so glad you came,” she says, tightening her hold on his hand. “I was so lonely, and no matter how much I called out for help, no one came. Everyone said it was useless, that no one would come, and I thought maybe they were right, but you came, didn’t you?” She smiles up at him, a tremulous, proud smile, but he feels himself frowning in response.

“Who said it was useless?” he asks. There’s something inside him that wants to find whoever told her that and knock sense into them, to tell them to be kind to this little girl.

“They did,” the girl says. “They were here before I got here. You know them. You’ve met them.”

“I’ve met-”

“You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t,” she says, looking up at him with big eyes.

John frowns, and the smell he’d noticed earlier intensifies. He stops, choking, and covers his mouth with his free hand again, tugging on the girl’s hand and forcing her to stop.

Ahead of them is a strange misty area, a mixture of black and green in the bleak greyness that surrounds them. It looks almost like the fog rising off a pond. The smell is coming from there, and John feels cold creeping over his body. The girl looks up at him, beaming. “That way!” she says. She runs forward and tugs on his hand. He stumbles after her for a moment, but stops, pulling her back.

“I don’t think we should go there,” he says, an urgency creeping into his voice. 

She shakes her head. “No, we have to,” she insists. “It’s where I have to go. You promised! Please!” Her eyes fill with tears again, and John feels a headache forming. His thoughts don’t feel so cloudy anymore, and he’s beginning to feel a bit of panic, trapped in this strange place with this girl.

“I have a bad feeling about it,” John warns. His heart is beginning to pound, and the girl grabs onto his arm, clutching him tightly. 

“Please,” she begs, her voice breaking. “Please, please. I don’t want to go alone! It’s scary!”

He swallows, his own lips twisting just a bit, sweat breaking out on his brow. He doesn't know what to do.

The girl takes his arm and pulls, crying and stomping as she goes forward, and John follows, his body shaking. Something inside of him is saying not to do this, but he can’t help but follow.

“I didn’t choose to come here,” the girl says from ahead of him. “I don’t want to be here. I have to leave. You have to help me!”

“It’s alright,” John says, despite the unease he feels. His voice is hoarse. “I’m right here.”

As they get closer to the strange green and black mist ahead of them, he can hear voices, low murmurs that he can’t understand. The girl is shivering but pulling insistently on his hand. He stops, tugging her back. “I don’t think-”

“You can’t leave me alone!” she says. She’s panicking now. “You have to come with me! Please!”

John looks around, but there is no way out. Other than the strange area ahead of them, they’re surrounded by nothing but grey. He starts to feel a sense of panic that makes his senses sharpen, makes him more attuned to what’s around him. He looks at the girl, whose shoulders are shaking, whose face is covered in snot and tears. She’s staring up at him through wide eyes, and he realizes, with a start, that the same smell he’d noticed when he first entered this place is also coming from her. 

She turns and starts running, still holding his hand, and he follows. He knows he shouldn’t, but he hasn’t yet thought of another plan. “It’s so lonely here,” she says. “But there are so many of them over there! It’ll be better, you’ll see!”

John is running behind her, his heart hammering, when suddenly, she trips. She falls flat on her face, a dull thud echoing in the emptiness that surrounds them. He kneels down next to her as relief floods him, and rests his hand on her back. His heart is pounding. 

She shrugs him off, still sobbing, and sits up. She’s hiccupping for breath now, and John feels something break in his heart. It’s all so clear now, and he knows what to do. His panic begins to recede. 

He lays a gentle hand on her shoulder. “It doesn’t seem very nice over there,” he says gesturing towards the green and black area. “Let’s go a different way, alright?” He can’t muster a smile for her. He feels tired and weary. His heart is no longer pounding; he’s no longer sweating. 

“Then where should I go?” she asks desperately. She’s terrified. 

“With me,” he says simply, even though he’s not quite sure how to get out of this place. “But we won’t go there.”

He stands up and holds out his hand. She takes it, rubbing her eyes with her other hand, when John frowns. He glances at his shoulder; he’d felt something strange and wet on it. He feels it again, and then holds out his hand and realizes he feels raindrops.

The little girl holds out her free hand, too, feeling the rain. “It’s never rained here before,” she says. 

“No?” John asks. He looks up and sees that it’s only raining in the area around them, nowhere else. There is a patch of brightness above them, and the rain is falling through. In the center of the rain, a ribbon hangs down. It’s longer than seems possible, and with a start, John remembers the ribbon in his pocket. 

He takes it out and looks at it for a moment, then holds it up towards the one he sees. Inexplicably, it defies gravity and stretches upward out of his hand, elongating until it meets the other.

“Let’s go this way,” he tells the girl. “Up.”

The girl shakes her head. “No, no, I can’t.”

“Why not?” John asks gently.

“Because I’m dirty,” she says. She looks down. “I’m different from before. Everyone’s gonna say I’m gross.”

John’s stomach clenches. “No,” he says firmly, his voice rough. He shakes his head. “They won’t.”

“They will,” she insists. 

He squeezes her hand. “No, they won’t,” he says softly. “And I certainly never will.”

He looks down and meets her eyes, and hers widen for just a moment in something like trust before she holds tighter to his hand, reaching up and clutching it with both of her own hands, burying her face in his arm. He holds her close and closes his eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath, and thinks of home as his ribbon twists around the one hanging from above.

\--

John wakes lying flat on the ground in the dirt. He opens his eyes to nothing but rain and a grey, dreary sky. The hydrangea surrounds him where he lies in its midst, and he feels a weary, hollow feeling deep within him. He wishes he couldn’t remember it, or that it had been a dream, but he knows that what just happened is real.

He turns his head to the side, and looks down at his hand. He’s clutching the hand of a young girl’s skeleton.

“You’re not gross,” he murmurs to it, feeling a few tears leak from the corner of his eye. “It must’ve been awful being alone for so long.”

The skeleton, of course, doesn’t reply, and he makes no move to disengage his hand. He just looks, feeling like his heart is ripped out of his chest, when he feels a tug on the ribbon in his hand

“John,” says a relieved voice. He looks up and Sherlock is there, holding the other end of the blue and white ribbon, and he drops to his knees beside John. 

“It took you long enough,” Sherlock says. There’s an edge to his voice, but his eyes are searching John’s form frantically as if he’s worried. He glances at John’s hand, and his breath catches. He reaches down and disengages John’s hand from the skeleton as if one second more of being attached would mean destruction, and John lets him, too tired to do anything but watch with a small, fond, sad smile.

“It’s been eight hours,” Sherlock says, his voice heated. 

“Really?” John murmurs. “I’d no idea.” 

“Yes, really,” Sherlock says. “And I’m soaked, if you couldn’t tell,” he adds. He sounds angry, and John sighs, pushing himself into a sitting position. 

“Right, lost your umbrella then?”

Sherlock just glares at him, and John shakes his head. “Don’t know why you’re so annoyed,” John says. “I’m the one who…did whatever it is I just did, while you were just up here doing nothing but waiting around.”

Sherlock shoves his hands in his pockets and turns to leave, clearly in some kind of snit, and John sighs and musters up the energy to follow along as usual.

\--

When they get back to 221B, Mycroft is sitting in their living room. He doesn’t say anything when they enter; just reads the stony silence between them and manages to raise one eyebrow in a look of condescension, which makes John angry enough to not make him a cup of tea when he puts on his own. John is cold and shivering in his clothes, but Sherlock claims the first shower, leaving John to deal with Mycroft.

He takes a towel from the closet and dries his hair and body as much as he can, going up to his room to change into dry clothes before he goes to sit across from Mycroft in the living room while the water boils, bone-weary with exhaustion.

“I see you have finished your job,” Mycroft says. “Thank you,” he adds, inclining his head.

“No problem,” John says. “That poor girl, though.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t about the girl,” he says. “She was infecting the hydrangea; the situation had to be resolved. Hydrangeas are quite special. They are…family, of sorts, to those who govern the rain.”

John just stares at him, mouth slightly agape. “You don’t-”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Don’t bother trying to push your morals on me, John,” he says. “I don’t care for the affairs of humans. I never have and never will. It’s a path that leads nowhere.”

John rubs a hand over his face. He’s too tired, physically and emotionally, to deal with this.

“You and Sherlock appear to be on bad terms,” Mycroft notes.

“Yeah, don’t know why. That lazy git didn’t even do anything, and he’s acting all annoyed with me for taking so long,” John says. 

“John,” Mycroft says patiently. “What do you think Sherlock did while you were with the girl?”

“Waited,” John says.

“And yet, he was soaked to the bone and covered in mud when you found him. If he were waiting, wouldn’t he have been using an umbrella?” 

John blinks, realizing he’d been too wrapped up in his own issues to question that. “So, he wasn’t waiting, then?” he asks slowly, glancing up at Mycroft for confirmation.

Mycroft shakes his head. “Today, I witnessed something I have never witnessed in the duration of my relationship with Sherlock,” he says. “Sherlock asked me for help.”

“Sorry – what?” John asks, remembering how vehement Sherlock had been that John had to do this job, that he would never be in Mycroft’s debt.

“You were taking too long,” Mycroft says simply. “Sherlock was – worried. An unusual state for him, surely. Usually, he thinks in terms of equivalence, or the value of actions and their counterparts. But in this case, he was worried for your wellbeing. It appears you make him think quite differently than he normally does.”

“Right,” John says. “Can you try that one more time, because I’ve had a long day and I don’t want to puzzle that out?”

Mycroft gives a clearly insincere twist of his lips that’s meant to be a smile. “Certainly,” he says, ever polite. “Sherlock was panicking. He was digging in the mud with his bare hands, trying to get to you, knowing the whole time it was fruitless and that he couldn’t get to you from the physical realm.”

“So why didn’t he just do – whatever he does and get there some other way?” John asks. His palms feel sweaty and he’s not sure why.

“Sherlock’s…magic is quite unusual,” Mycroft says. “He grants wishes. But granting your own wish is quite taboo; a bit like divining your own future. It was his wish, at that moment, to find you, and so he couldn’t use his magic for that; the price would be too great.”

John frowns. “But he made that weird tunnel for us earlier - ”

Mycroft shakes his head. “That’s a different situation, John. One of Sherlock’s titles is the Dimensional Mage. He has a unique ability to create portals between dimensions. It’s unrelated to the business of wish granting, or to other incidental small pieces of magic.”

John boggles at this. He doesn’t know what to make of it. “Right,” he says slowly. “So, he couldn’t help me. But, the ribbon…?”

“He came to me,” Mycroft said. “He asked for my help, and I gave it to him, providing the magic for the ribbons to be put to use. He is now in my debt.”

John stares at Mycroft, unsure of how to proceed, when the tea whistles. He goes to the kitchen and pours a cup for Mycroft despite his earlier resolve not to, and brings it back, his thoughts far away from the menial task of making tea.

“Can’t you – can’t you just not pay me in exchange?” John asks.

Mycroft smiles, but it seems a bit more genuine this time. “You’d be willing to forfeit your payment for him?”

“Of course,” John says immediately.

“Interesting,” Mycroft says, and John doesn't like his tone. “But it doesn’t work that way, unfortunately. Your debt is yours alone, and Sherlock’s is his alone. But as it so happens, he has a rather valuable mirror I’ve had my eye on for some time, and he will give it to me today. We’ve already arranged the payment.”

They are silent for a moment, sipping their tea. 

“You must be quite special,” Mycroft says after a while. “I don’t think Sherlock has quite explained to you what it means to be the keeper of this shop. When he first began, he was often quite gravely ill. If he charged too much or too little, the balance would be so off that his magic would attack his own body in response. For him to be in someone else’s debt, especially someone of my power, is dangerous for not only his own health, but also the balance of the magic in this world. You should keep that in mind. While you were being taken in by that little girl’s murderous intent, Sherlock was putting himself in grave danger for you.”

Before John can respond, he hears the shower shut off, and his heart speeds up for a moment, thinking of Sherlock and all he’s done, when John had done nothing but accuse him of being lazy in response. He swallows and stands, going to the kitchen, preparing another cup of tea. Mycroft is silent in the living room, and John is glad. His hands are shaking as he puts the water on, the events of the day catching up to him. 

Sherlock enters the living room a moment later, and John hears him talk to Mycroft. 

“Here,” Sherlock says. “I believe this is now yours.”

John doesn’t watch, knowing that Sherlock is handing over the mirror. Mycroft takes it with a murmur of thanks, and John is glad not to watch the exchange.

“John, I’ll give your payment to Sherlock another day,” Mycroft says. John turns then, heading towards the living room. He doesn’t look at Sherlock; not yet, not while Mycroft is still there.

“Alright,” John says. 

“I’ll just let myself out then, shall I?” Mycroft says. Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns away to flop down on the couch, facing away from the room, and John shrugs. 

Mycroft stares at John for a moment. “I don’t know why he thinks you’re so special,” he muses, to which Sherlock throws a pillow in Mycroft’s general direction without turning away from the back of the couch. Mycroft rolls his eyes and takes his leave. John doesn’t bother following him; he doesn't exactly like him, after all.

When Mycroft is gone, John turns toward Sherlock and hesitates for a moment, but goes to the kitchen instead. He makes Sherlock’s tea and brings it into the living room. 

“I brought you tea,” he says.

Sherlock doesn’t reply, and John sighs, setting the tea on the table and sitting in his chair.

“Er, right. Sorry I didn’t realize what you’d done for me,” he says. “I – I was thinking about that girl and I didn’t even realize you were covered in mud, or think about what you had to do-”

Sherlock suddenly twists around and sits up, and John stops talking, leaning back a bit at the shock of Sherlock’s sudden movement.

“Don’t apologize, John, it’s dull,” he says.

“What? But I want to-”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and huffs, reaching for his tea. “It’s fine,” he says. 

“No, it’s not fine,” John insists. “I called you a lazy git when you did so much-”

Sherlock is clearly uncomfortable. “It’s fine,” he repeats. “Apology…accepted.” He blows across his tea and avoids John’s eyes.

John can’t help but smile. “Right,” he says. “Okay. I’m just gonna have a shower, then.”

“Make it quick,” Sherlock says, still avoiding eye contact. “I’m hungry. I want Angelo’s.”

John smiles. “Yeah, okay.”

\--

Later, John’s exhausted and wants nothing more to sink into his chair, but he’s also starving, so he sets out with Sherlock for Angelo’s. He realizes, though, that he has no idea how to get there. Sherlock is walking in a very specific direction, so John follows and assumes Sherlock knows where they’re going. It’s nowhere near where he’d found the place last time, but somehow, that doesn’t surprise him.

“Er, that girl today,” John begins as they walk, glancing at Sherlock to see if he’s receptive to the topic. Sherlock makes no indication he’s even heard John speak, so John continues. “That girl – where exactly was I? It felt like just ten minutes; I can’t understand how eight hours went by.”

Sherlock sighs. He stops for a moment and tilts his head, then turns left. John follows. “It was the place between life and death,” he says.

“Oh,” John says, startled. He’s not surprised, not really, but it’s still shocking to hear it said so plainly. “So, the place she was trying to go – it was all green and black, that was where dead people go?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “It’s one of the places dead people go,” he corrects. “There are many. That one is…not good.”

“So why did she want to go there?” John asked. “She’s just a little girl.”

“That’s why she couldn’t go alone,” Sherlock says. “She was innocent alone. But if she brought you, she was just as bad as the rest of them. She’d be a murderer then.”

“She-what?”

Sherlock stops and looks at him sharply. “If you followed her there, you couldn't have returned,” he says. 

“Oh,” John says. He doesn’t know how else to respond; he’s too tired.

“But it’s no matter,” Sherlock says flippantly, charging forward. “You didn’t go. And now, I believe we’ve found Angelo’s.”

John looks ahead, and sure enough, he sees the familiar string of light bulbs illuminating the mysterious food stand, alone in a darkened area.

“How do you know where to find it?” John asks.

Sherlock just smiles. “You just have to look for it, John, it’s quite simple.”

John rolls his eyes and follows Sherlock. Just as they approach, the curtain opens, and Angelo gestures them inside. “Sherlock! Come in, come in, it’s great to see you! And you too, John!”

Sherlock and John greet Angelo and sit at the counter. Like last time, it smells delicious.

“Chicken cacciatore alright?” Angelo asks.

“Perfect,” John says, and Sherlock nods in agreement. 

Angelo adjusts the heat on his stove then turns away for a moment, grabbing something behind him, then turns back with a small candle. He sets it between John and Sherlock. “It’s not much, but it should make your date a little more romantic, right?” he asks. 

“What? It’s not-”

“Don’t worry, you don't have to hide it from me,” Angelo insists with a waggle of his eyebrows. His big, bushy tail twitches behind him. Sherlock says nothing, and John’s shoulders slump in resignation. 

“Right, yeah,” he mutters. 

But then, Angelo puts their food in front of them, and John is no longer concerned, eager to eat after such a long day. Sitting next to Sherlock, the events of the day finally over, the food tastes that much more delicious, and he smiles, glad to be alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And big thanks to [weighted-orange](http://weighted-orange.tumblr.com) for the beta! Part Six will be up next week! :) Also, feel free to [follow me on tumblr](http://slashscribe.tumblr.com)!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock meet an unusual woman in the park who puts Sherlock's life in danger. John has to find a way to save him.

John’s not sure why he’s nervous; he’s a grown man, after all. And yet, he finds himself clearing his throat and nervously adjusting his shirt collar with his left hand while his right tightens on the handles of the small gift bag he holds. He takes a deep breath, then lets it out in a whoosh and reaches out to ring Mary’s doorbell.

He tries to focus on the unusually cool breeze rather than the way his heart is beating quickly in his chest, but it’s more difficult than he expects, as most things with Mary are. He’s come to Mary’s house without calling first, but he’s hoping she’ll be home.

There’s no answer, though, so he frowns and rings the bell again. There aren’t any lights on inside, which isn’t encouraging. Nevertheless, he stands still for a moment and waits, hoping she’ll come to the door, but there’s no movement. His shoulders fall a bit and he feels disappointed and unaccountably embarrassed. Discouraged, he turns around, but gasps and startles backward when there’s a familiar tall man standing directly behind him.

“Jesus, Sherlock! What are you doing here?” he manages to ask, blinking rapidly.

“I was bored,” Sherlock says with a shrug and a smile. He seems pleased to have startled John. There’s a small tote bag slung over his shoulder, and it shifts as he shrugs. “Mary’s not home, then?”

John tilts his head for a moment, staring at Sherlock incredulously. “You can’t just follow me to Mary’s,” he says.

Again, Sherlock shrugs. “Obviously, I can,” he says. “I just did.”

John can’t help it; Sherlock’s response is so ridiculous that he huffs out a laugh, though he’s still annoyed and frustrated. “Right,” he says. “You can. But that doesn’t mean you should.” He walks away from Mary’s home, brushing past Sherlock, who smiles and falls into step beside him. “Do you make a habit of following me places?”

“No, I haven’t the time for that,” Sherlock says flippantly. “But today seemed like a promising opportunity. Let’s go to the park. It’s rather nice out.”

John rubs a hand over his face. “A promising opportunity for what?” 

“Following you, obviously,” Sherlock says. “Now let’s go to the park.”

Despite his annoyance, John knows he’s going to agree; after all, Mary isn’t home, and he really has nothing else to do, and it’s not like he’s shocked by Sherlock’s behavior. He falls into step with Sherlock easily.

“I wonder where Mary is,” John muses. “Maybe she’s just run to the shops and I should try again later.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Sherlock says from beside him. “She’s probably out for the day.”

“What makes you say that?” John asks. 

“She hasn’t picked up her paper or her post today,” Sherlock points out. “Maybe she’s even gone away for the weekend.”

John frowns, feeling a bit foolish with the useless gift bag in his hands. “I guess I should’ve called first,” he says.

Sherlock shrugs. “No matter,” he says. “It’s better this way.” 

“How is it better?” John asks, frustrated. “I wanted to see Mary.” He pauses, and then hastily adds, “Don’t answer that. Just don’t.”

John’s not in the mood to hear about Sherlock’s disapproval of Mary, so he ignores the smug smile Sherlock gives him in lieu of a verbal answer as they arrive at the small park near Mary’s house, the same one where John had disappeared into a hydrangea. Sherlock leads them over to a large fountain, and they sit on the edge. John can’t help but grudgingly admit to himself that it’s nice to spend a day like this with Sherlock, even though he’d set out to see Mary. It’s a nice day, after all, and the park is empty besides them. 

Sherlock opens his bag and John isn’t surprised to see him take out Billy, setting him beside him on the ledge of the large fountain.

“Cheers, mate,” Billy says. 

John sighs. He’d been hoping for Mary, but instead, he has a skull. This is all too typical for his life these days.

“I’ll be back,” John says. He stands and shoves his hands in his pockets, making his way towards a small drinking fountain. Frustration is welling up inside him; the day is not working in his favor so far, and he wants to see Mary, give her the cupcake he’d worked so hard to make, and have a nice day with her. Instead, he’s in the park where he’d nearly died with Sherlock and Billy. It’s not exactly how he’d planned for the day to go, but he takes a sip of water and tells himself things happen for a reason as he straightens and takes a moment to calm himself.

He walks back to where Sherlock and Billy are sitting, looking up at the clear sky as he goes, but then stops short when he glances ahead and sees Sherlock licking chocolate frosting off his thumb.

“That’s not for you!” John protests, going closer to Sherlock and grabbing the gift bag from his hands. Inside is nothing but a small cake box, now smeared with frosting, and a dirty wrapper.

Sherlock looks unrepentant. “It was quite good,” he says. “Did you make it?”

John just stares for a moment. He’s not sure why he’s surprised at Sherlock’s inconsiderate behavior, but he is. He tries to rein his anger in. “I made it this morning while you were out. I left you plenty of extras at home you could have eaten instead of Mary’s, you know,” he says. There’s chocolate all over the inside of the bag and box; if he wants to give a cupcake to Mary, he’ll have to get new ones, which only adds to his annoyance.

“But you gave this one the most attention,” Sherlock points out. “So it’s the best one.”

“Yeah, exactly why I was giving it to Mary,” John says. He sits beside Sherlock, holding the bag in his hands and looking at it in irritation.

“He seems angry,” Billy tells Sherlock.

“Quite,” Sherlock agrees. “But it’s only a cupcake and Mary’s not even home.”

John sighs. “I can hear you, you know,” he says. “Mary said her mum used to make her a cupcake just like that when she was little. She would’ve loved it.”

“Well, Sherlock loved it,” Billy says. “So it hasn’t completely gone to waste, right?”

John just stares at Billy, who looks to be in satisfied agreement with Sherlock, and he wonders, not for the first time, how he’s managed to get himself involved with this mad group. “I don’t bloody care if Sherlock liked it,” he says. “It was for Mary!” 

“She’s not exactly your lady luck,” Sherlock says, as if that makes what he’s done okay.

John purses his lips and looks towards the sky for a moment, trying to keep his anger in check. “Right,” he says. “So you’ve said. But I don’t care.”

Sherlock turns to him and raises one eyebrow. John lets out an annoyed huff of air and looks away, frowning when he glances in front of him and sees a woman sitting on a swing nearby. He hadn’t heard her approach, but then, he’d been quite angry, so he thinks that could be why. She’s very beautiful; she’s thin and fair skinned with thick, red hair. Her eyes are dark, and her lips and cheeks are flushed with color. She looks like something out of a fairy tale, John thinks, and he doesn’t notice he’s been staring at her until he realizes she’s staring back.

He looks away for a moment, then looks back, and she’s still staring, but this time, at Sherlock. Her head is tilted, and she’s smiling just a little bit. John glances between them. Sherlock is staring back at her, and he looks intrigued.

John glances between them once, and then twice, and when neither of them looks away from the other, he stands up, his hands balled into fists at his sides, and turns on Sherlock. 

“Do you want me to go get her number for you?” he asks. He is irrationally angry for reasons he can’t fathom.

Sherlock takes his eyes away from the woman to look at John. He takes in the details of John’s posture and face for a moment, and then raises an eyebrow. “Interesting,” he says.

John rolls his eyes and turns away from him, towards the woman. He walks a few steps until he’s standing in front of her.

“Hello,” he says with a tight smile. “Pleasure to meet you. I can see you’d like to talk to my friend. Go ahead; help yourself. He’s a selfish, arrogant, sneaky git, but help yourself.”

The woman flushes red and stares at him in some mixture of embarrassment and shock. She seems flustered, and John instantly regrets taking his annoyance on Sherlock out on her. “He’s really not bad,” John adds, the edge out of his voice this time, and he turns to Sherlock, who is watching John with a raised brow and the corner of his mouth turned upwards.

John gestures Sherlock to stand. When Sherlock doesn’t, John sighs and goes to him, pulling him up and dragging him over to the woman. He shoves Sherlock down onto the swing beside her and gives him a warning glare. Sherlock still looks amused, and John goes back to the fountain to sit beside Billy, crossing his arms in a huff.

“You seem a bit jealous, mate,” Billy says. He sounds cautious, and John realizes he’s radiating anger.

“I’m not jealous,” he says. “But it bloody figures that I don’t get to see Mary, Sherlock eats her birthday present, and then this beautiful woman comes out of nowhere and Sherlock gets her, too.”

“I don’t think Sherlock’s interested in her,” Billy says. John glances over at the swings, frowning. The woman is staring at her lap; she appears to be quite shy. Sherlock is sitting beside her and staring at John, who’s beginning to feel a bit guilty for shoving Sherlock in the woman’s direction to begin with – but Sherlock’s a grown man, and he could walk away anytime, and he should really reconsider getting John so riled up in the future, John thinks. He’s about to go apologize when the woman looks up at Sherlock.

“I’m really not interested in you,” she says, loud enough for John to hear. 

“Of course not,” Sherlock agrees. “That would be absurd.”

The woman says something else, and then Sherlock looks surprised. He’s paying attention to her now, and he looks calculating for a moment.

“What are they saying?” John asks Billy, desperate to know. 

“She said she came all this way to see you, but you made a present for someone else and she’s upset. She wants a present from you,” Billy says.

“To see me? Wait – you can hear her?”

“I have exceptional hearing,” Billy says, and John wonders exactly what that means before he glances back at Sherlock and the woman beside him. He stands up in alarm, though, when he sees the woman crouch in front of Sherlock, who is sitting still and watching her with clear interest. She reaches her arm out to his stomach – only it extends past his flesh until her hand disappears. It only lasts for a moment, but she reaches in, twists, and then pulls out the cupcake Sherlock had eaten earlier. 

John stares in shock, his mouth partly open, unable to believe what he sees. Time seems to slow as he watches the woman’s hand retreat from Sherlock’s body. The cupcake looks exactly as it had when John made it, but it’s glowing slightly, and does not seem entirely corporeal. As soon as she holds it, though, Sherlock slumps forwards and slides gracelessly off the swing. John’s shock lasts just a moment longer before his body jolts into action. He runs over, ignoring Billy’s cries to bring him along in his haste to get to Sherlock’s side. When he gets there, he reaches down and rolls Sherlock over so his face isn’t in the dirt, and looks up at the woman, his hands secure on Sherlock’s body. 

“What – what are you? What have you done to him?” he asks frantically. 

She frowns, and it looks for a moment as if she’s going to cry. 

“Fix him!” John demands, gesturing towards Sherlock’s prone form.

Her lip quivers for a moment, and then she turns on her heel and runs. John looks between Sherlock and her, and he doesn’t know what to do. He focuses on Sherlock for the time being, checking his breathing and his pulse.

He’s breathing regularly, and his pulse is fine, but John’s eyes keep flitting frantically over his features, trying to absorb as many details as he can, to ascertain whether or not he’ll be okay, but it’s near impossible because he has no idea what’s just happened. He glances up towards where the woman was, but he can’t see her; she’s already gone. He has a feeling he should chase her, but he knows he can’t leave Sherlock, and panic is beginning to build inside of hi.

He registers the sound of Billy shouting for him in the background, so he glances once between Sherlock and Billy, then quickly stands up and runs over to grab Billy and bring him back. It takes only a few seconds, but it feels like eternity, leaving Sherlock alone and vulnerable.

“Come on, wake up,” John says once he’s returned. He stares at Sherlock’s closed eyes and pats him on the cheek, hoping he’ll wake. He’s surprised at how cool and smooth Sherlock’s skin is under his hand, and he swallows hard, letting his hand rest against Sherlock’s cheek for a moment, his thumb rubbing along Sherlock’s cheekbone as he tries to focus.

“You can’t wake him up that way,” Billy says. He sounds concerned.

“How do I wake him up, then?” John asks, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s face. He’s an army doctor, but he’s not prepared for this, for injuries with causes that are quite literally out of this world. His heart is pounding in his chest, and there’s a buzzing in his ears making it hard to focus. 

“You have to find that woman,” Billy says, and John turns to look at him, feeling just on the verge of a breakdown, when a new voice suddenly enters their conversation. 

“Oh, dear,” a deep voice says, and John automatically covers Sherlock’s prone form before turning his head towards the voice, but then relaxes when he sees Mycroft approaching. “It seems Sherlock has gotten himself into trouble again,” Mycroft says.

“Mycroft,” John says, equal parts relieved and distrustful, ignoring his questions of how the fuck Mycroft knew Sherlock was in danger. “What do I do?”

“Find the woman,” Mycroft echoes. “She took his soul.”

“His soul?” John asks. “It was just the cupcake I made.”

Mycroft pauses and looks at John as if he’s a particularly annoying housefly and gives a thin smile. “This gift was made by you, someone with many unique abilities including an unusually strong power to attract spirits, and it was eaten by Sherlock, someone with a power that many beings in this universe desire to claim as their own. As such, it has become a very important artifact, only capable of being taken by someone with quite strong power themselves.”

John doesn’t have time to think over the details of this statement, but Mycroft’s last words stand out to him. “If she’s so strong, why did Sherlock let her do that?” John asks. “He had to have known. Why would he do that?”

Mycroft regards John for a moment, and then shrugs. “You’ll have to ask him that when he wakes up. For now, find that woman.”

“How?”

“Do you expect me to do everything for you?” Mycroft asks. “I don’t know how Sherlock puts up with you.”

John doesn’t have time to get angry, he knows that, and he turns to Billy desperately, his fingers curling into Sherlock’s shirt. 

“Call Molly,” Billy suggests, and John is grateful for Billy’s presence, which has slowly become comforting to him. 

“Right,” John says, remembering his trip to the fortuneteller. “Molly.” He pauses, and then looks at Billy helplessly. “I don’t have her phone number.”

“Sherlock does,” Billy says. “Focus.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, and John forces himself to ignore him. He reaches into Sherlock’s jacket, desperately trying not to focus on the way Sherlock doesn’t react to his touch, and pulls out his phone, glad Sherlock has told him the passcode. He scrolls through the contacts until he finds Molly. He calls her, holding the phone tight against his ear, his eyes trained on Sherlock’s still form as his free hand returns to clutch Sherlock’s shirt.

When Molly picks up, he feels his shoulders sag in relief. “Molly, it’s John, we met-” John says. He’s surprised at how steady his voice is, that he’s managing not to panic.

“John,” she interrupts. “If you want to help him, you need to go to Baker Street.”

John falters for a moment, surprised at how much she already knows, but pushes that aside. “Baker Street?” John asks. “But–”

“Mrs. Hudson will know what to do,” Molly says. “Go now, quickly.”

John swallows. “Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” Molly says. “You can do it, John, just stay focused.”

John frowns. “Right. Thanks. Bye, Molly,” he says. He hangs up and replaces Sherlock’s phone in his pocket. “She says I have to go to Baker Street,” he tells Mycroft and Billy.

“Go,” Mycroft says. “I’ll stay with Sherlock.”

John glances at him, unsure, his hand on Sherlock’s chest, and Mycroft rolls his eyes. 

“Go,” he repeats. “I won’t harm him, but you will if you don’t leave.”

John hesitates only a fraction of a second, memorizing the sight of Sherlock and the feel of him under his hands, before grabbing Billy and running for the park gates. He has no time to waste.

He catches a taxi and ignores the cabbie’s questions about the skull in his hands; thankfully, Billy knows better than to talk in a taxi. The ride seems to take forever. Every time they are stopped at a red light, John can’t help but clench and unclench his hand, pursing his lips as he stares listlessly out the window, eyes taking in nothing of the scenery before him and focusing only on replaying the events of the day.

When at last they arrive at Baker Street, John pays as quickly as he can with slightly trembling hands and is out of the cab and inside as fast as his legs can take him.

“Mrs. Hudson!” he shouts upon entering, unsure if she’s in her own 221A or upstairs in 221B. He hesitates for a moment before taking the stairs two at a time up to 221B. Mrs. Hudson is inside dusting, and she frowns at him.

“I heard you shouting, dear, what’s going on?” she asks.

“Sherlock’s in danger,” he says urgently. “I need to help him. There was a woman – she took his soul, and I have to get it back.”

“Well, what are you doing here, then? Go find her!” Mrs. Hudson says. 

“Molly said to come here,” Billy says. “You have to tell him how to find her, Mrs. H.”

Mrs. Hudson frowns at Billy for a moment, then turns to John, looking at him in sharp assessment that seems more like Sherlock than herself. She’s gone from worry to composure alarmingly quickly. 

“I don’t know if he’s ready,” she tells Billy.

“I can hear you!” John says in frustration. “Just bloody tell me what to do!” Mrs. Hudson looks shocked by his outburst, and he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Right, sorry,” he says. His heart is pounding; he doesn’t have time for this. “Just…tell me how to find her. Please.”

“Alright, dear,” she says. She pats his arm consolingly, and it only makes him tense. He doesn’t need consoling; he needs action, but he feels uncomfortably lost and unsure of what to do. “Do you want a cuppa first?”

“What – no! No, I don’t want tea, I want you to tell me how to find that woman!” 

John feels at his wit’s end. There is a surprising amount of panic rising inside him, and the only thing he can see in his mind is Sherlock, lying still on the ground with only Mycroft there to stand watch. John is trained for crisis situations, but nothing has prepared him for this; he’s fighting a battle with unknown weapons, and he doesn’t like it.

“No need to get stroppy, now,” Mrs. Hudson says. “You’ll need to be calm. Come on, then.”

“You’ll need me, too, so don’t even think about leaving me!” Billy says from the crook of his elbow, and again, John is grateful for him as Mrs. Hudson brushes past them to head towards Sherlock’s bedroom.

John follows behind her in agitation, wondering how he’s expected to be calm in a situation like this, and how she can be so calm herself. When they enter Sherlock’s room, John is overcome by how much of Sherlock’s personality is in here, and he feels desperation clawing at his skin, making it hard to breathe.

“Alright, mate?” Billy asks.

John pauses, takes a deep breath, and feels his spine straighten. He’s faced war; he’s been shot. He can do this. He will listen to Mrs. Hudson’s instructions and do what he has to do. He nods a short, clipped nod, and he’s not entirely surprised when Mrs. Hudson opens the door to Sherlock’s closet.

“If there’s anyone who can get through there, it’s certainly you,” Mrs. Hudson says.

“I have to – I have to go through that door?” John asks, gesturing towards the door he went through with Sherlock and Mycroft. “There’s nothing there. I don’t know how to use it.”

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head. “There’s everything there. You just need to be attuned to it,” she says. “Sherlock made it, you know. He made that passageway, just like he made this place and everything inside it.”

John doesn’t know what this means, and right now, he doesn't care. “Right – he made it, but how do I get to that woman from here?”

“Well, I’ve never done it myself, mind, but you have to go through the door and concentrate very hard on where you want to go,” Mrs. Hudson says, giving his arm a pat. “You can do it, John, just think about the woman you saw, and you’ll find a door. I can’t go through to help you, but you’ll be just fine.”

Mrs. Hudson holds the door open for John, watching him with trepidation. John sighs and looks around the closet, rubbing his forehead. He sees a tote bag nearby, hanging amongst some of Sherlock’s clothes, and he takes it, shoving Billy inside with a look of apology; he may need his hands. Mrs. Hudson reaches out and pats his arm as he crosses the threshold, and he nods at her, his jaw set and his shoulders square. 

“Cheers, Mrs. H,” Billy says loudly from inside the bag.

John stops just inside the door and closes his eyes when he’s entered the familiar black void. The door closes and disappears behind him, and he shivers in the cold, trying to ignore the way this place makes his skin crawl. It feels like there are spirits lurking everywhere, doing their best to encroach on his space. He feels paralyzed.

“Concentrate,” Billy says, his voice muffled. “I know it’s hard, mate, but you have to focus. No distractions.”

John nods, though he knows Billy can’t see it. His skin feels prickly, and every time he tries to focus on the woman from the park, he’s overwhelmed by the dark energy surrounding him. He swallows, his throat constricting. Goose pimples are breaking out over his skin, and terrible memories are coming at him unbidden. He sees guns, hears bombs, feels a bullet tearing through his shoulder –

“Billy,” he says desperately. “I’m trying, but I can’t-“

“You can,” Billy interrupts. “Focus on Sherlock.”

John nods, his eyes still closed. He does his best to think about Sherlock, about the stupid git lying on the couch in his dressing gown smoking a pipe, about him looking up at the moon while sitting on the roof drinking wine, about the way the moonlight reflects off his features. Slowly, the images of sand are replaced with images of stacks of books and the scent of gunpowder is replaced with the scent of Sherlock, of the sweet smoke from his pipe and the tea he likes to drink. 

John thinks about the way Sherlock took care of him after he’d been attacked by a spirit, about how it felt to have Sherlock’s fingers carding through his hair. He can almost feel it now, warm pressure against his scalp. His shoulders relax a fraction, and he remembers sitting pressed against Sherlock, glass of wine in hand as they look out over London. His mind is filling with images of Sherlock, of remembered sights and smells and sounds. It’s like the man himself is right there next to him, a warm and solid presence by his side, and he remembers the way Sherlock sat on the fountain edge and unrepentantly licked chocolate frosting off his fingers, the way he’d looked at that woman in amusement and just sat there while she reached into his body and pulled out his soul – 

And then, his eyes shoot open because he’s felt a distinct shift in the atmosphere around him. He doesn’t feel the darkness closing in on him anymore; he doesn’t even feel the unsettled chill that never seems to leave him in this place. He feels nothing but focus and determination to find Sherlock.

His heart begins to beat faster when he sees that a door has appeared in front of him. It’s a plain, white door, and he can’t help but stand still and stare, relief flooding him even though he’s unsure of what lies beyond the door.

“Good on you,” Billy says. “Go on, then, open it.”

John nods again, and squares his shoulders. The doorknob is cold beneath his hand, and he hesitates for only a moment to steel himself before he turns the handle and throws open the door.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but what he sees is certainly not it. In front of him is a vast meadow, extending as far as his eyes can see, colorful wildflowers growing freely amongst tall grass. The sky is blue and clear, and a light breeze ruffles his hair. There is a tall oak tree next to a pond, and the woman from earlier is sitting underneath it. The glowing cupcake is cupped in her hands, and John feels his heart start to pound. His eyes widen and he steps forward, slowly at first, then quicker and quicker until he reaches the tree.

The woman looks up at him and clutches the cupcake. Her eyes are wide, and she seems to be on the verge of tears again.

“I need that back,” John says, his voice calm even though he wants to scream and shout.

“I’m sorry,” the woman says. Her voice is light and tremulous. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to give you a gift.”

John is at a loss for words for a moment. He can only stare at her, brow furrowed and mouth partially open. “Right, well, is this your gift, then?” he finally asks, gesturing towards the cupcake.

She nods hesitantly. “It’s very special, isn’t it?”

He nods in return, trying not to show his desperation. He keeps it under tight control. “Yes,” he says. His heart is pounding; he can barely take his eyes off of the cupcake long enough to look her in the face. “It is. I’d really like it back.”

“You’re upset,” she says. Her lip quivers.

John takes a deep breath. His hand flexes at his side. Normally, he’d be yelling at her, demanding answers, but she seems strangely vulnerable, and, well, off. “That’s very, very important to someone very important to me,” he says instead. “He could die without it. I really need it.”

Her eyes widen in alarm. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” she says. “I just wanted to give you a present.”

“How do you even know who I am?” he asks.

“Everyone knows who you are,” she says simply. “Everyone in the spirit world.”

“And you…you must know Sherlock, then,” John says evenly.

She nods.

“Then why would you take this from him?” John asks, anger creeping into his words.

“I thought you would like it!” she says. “You could always have a piece of him with you!”

John shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Please give that back.”

She stands up in one smooth, grateful movement, her long lilac-colored dress flowing with her body. She hesitates for a moment, and John is moments away from reaching out and just stealing it, but finally, finally, she holds her hands out. John reaches out with trembling hands to take the cupcake from her. It’s surprisingly light in his hands, and he swallows at the warmth it spreads over his skin. He feels safe and calm, and he finds himself unable to speak for a moment, overwhelmed by the sensation of it. He closes his eyes, his hands trembling. His heartbeat feels loud in his ears, but it’s not panic making it thrum so strongly.

“Thank you,” he finally says, opening his eyes to look at her. His voice sounds strange to his ears, and he’s surprised he’s managed to take his senses off of the delicate package he holds long enough to speak. “I’ll go now.”

“How will you go back?” the woman asks. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, watching him in concern.

John looks at her in confusion, then turns, looking over his shoulder towards where he came from. The door is no longer there. This shouldn’t shock him; he remembers now, when they’d gone to Mary’s, how the door disappeared behind them, and yet shock overtakes him. He starts to feel panicked; he looks around frantically for a road, a sign, anything, but this meadow seems to go on forever. Something is bubbling up in his chest and he needs to get to Sherlock, immediately, but he can’t ascertain a way out of this place, wherever it is. His hands tighten convulsively around the cupcake.

“I can help you,” the woman says. She smiles at him, and he’s torn between helplessness and distrust of this woman who quite literally stole Sherlock’s soul – though to be fair, she seems to have done it accidentally.

“It’s alright,” Billy says from the tote bag. John jumps in shock; he’d forgotten Billy was with him. “Let her help you.”

The woman seems unfazed by the disembodied voice coming from John’s bag. “He’s right,” she says. “Please let me help you.”

John knows there’s nothing he can do without her, and so he nods, watching her through guarded eyes as she steps forward. His eyes shift to her hand, which she’s threaded through the crook of his elbow, and then back up to her face. She smiles at him, a tremulous smile, as the wind suddenly picks up. She steps forward and John can do nothing but follow, but when his foot lands, it’s on pavement, and he’s alone. 

His body jolts with the shock of it, and he blinks a few times to orient himself before he realizes that he’s standing in the park. Mycroft is standing nearby, watching him with one eyebrow raised. Mycroft has moved Sherlock to lie across a bench, and John hurries over and kneels beside Sherlock, his hands still wrapped around the warm, faintly glowing cupcake.

Sherlock is still, his chest just barely moving with the slightest of breaths. His face is pale, and in the twilight, it looks almost translucent. John swallows, his eyes raking over Sherlock’s form, eager to take in every bit of him. He glances behind him at Mycroft, who is leaning on his umbrella and watching John.

“What do I do?” John asks frantically. 

“Hold it over his chest and let go,” Mycroft says. His voice is less cold than usual, and John is grateful.

Carefully, he reaches out and holds the glowing thing that was once a cupcake over Sherlock’s chest. He doesn’t want to let go; it seems far too precious for that, but he takes a deep breath, holds it in for a moment, and lets go. The cupcake drops into Sherlock’s chest, and much like the woman’s hand had done before, it vanishes into his skin. It’s anticlimactic in how easy it is, but John’s heat is pounding nonetheless.

He leans back on his heels and watches as Sherlock suddenly takes a sharp, deep inhalation. It’s shocking to see his inert body suddenly move; his eyes fly open and his spine arches off the bench and his arms flop to the side, and he holds himself taut for a moment before he lies flat again. He blinks rapidly and his forehead screws up in thought and then he turns his head to the side, lifting one hand to rub at his head. 

“John?” he asks. “What –“

“You idiot!” John says. Before he realizes what he’s doing, he grabs Sherlock by the shirt collar and hauls him up into a sitting position. Sherlock slumps forward and furrows his brow as he looks at John.

“Are you stupid?” John asks. “You knew who she was! You knew, and you let her reach into you and take your bloody soul!”

“Oh, this is certainly interesting,” Mycroft says from where he stands behind John. Both John and Sherlock swivel their heads in his direction to glare at him, and he raises an amused eyebrow.

“Go away, Mycroft,” Sherlock says. 

“Please,” John adds. After all, Mycroft had just helped him save Sherlock.

Mycroft gives a tight smile. “As you wish,” he says. “Don’t think I won’t know the outcome of this little tiff anyway. Good luck, then.”

Mycroft turns on his heel and puts up his umbrella, and John blinks when he suddenly vanishes. It’s testament to the day he’s had that this doesn’t even seem shocking to him. 

He turns back to Sherlock. John’s hand is still gripping the collar of Sherlock’s shirt. His knuckles are white, and Sherlock’s just looking at him as if it’s any other day, as if he hadn’t just given his own soul away.

“Well?” John asks. Their faces are close, and he finds that he can’t look away from Sherlock’s eyes.

“I’m not sure what you want me to say,” Sherlock says. His voice is low, and John feels his eyebrows rise. 

“I want you to tell me why you let that…that thing take out your soul!”

Sherlock smiles. “I knew you would get it back,” he says with a shrug, his shirt shifting beneath John’s hand. 

“What if I hadn’t?” John asks, his voice rising. He’s surprised at the way it breaks, and Sherlock seems to be as well. 

“I knew that wouldn’t happen,” Sherlock says. “It wasn’t a possible outcome.”

“Of course it was,” John says. His hand is shaking on Sherlock’s shirt, but he can’t bring himself to let go. 

Sherlock covers John’s hand with his own and John feels some tension leave his body at the reassurance that Sherlock is real and alive beside him. He is still angry, but he lets go of Sherlock’s shirt, pushing himself up off the ground and sitting on the edge of the bench. Sherlock twists until he’s sitting up properly, but he keeps himself angled toward John, one leg on the ground and one bent on the bench.

“You knew who she was,” John finally says, once he’s settled himself.

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “She’s a spirit of good fortune.”

“Good fortune?” John asks incredulously. “She just took your soul!”

Sherlock shrugs. “Yes, well, those types of spirit are quite fond of mischief.”

John’s jaw drops. “That’s not mischief.”

“She didn’t realize she was taking such serious action,” Sherlock replies. “She may seem like an adult, but she doesn’t really have the logic processing of one. Either way, I’m fine now, so there’s no problem.”

“But you had no soul,” John says. “How is that okay?”

“Well, you learned something, didn’t you? You figured out how to find me. That’s quite important.”

“You could have just taught me,” John says. His anger is fading against his will and being replaced with heady relief. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “You wouldn’t have concentrated without proper incentive to learn.”

“Well, next time, don’t just sacrifice yourself,” John says. “You’re much more than a learning incentive. You can’t just do that, not for me. Not for anyone.”

“I wasn’t sacrificing myself,” Sherlock says. “I knew you’d save me. But you had to see that she wanted to see you. You have to understand how much people care about you, John.”

John’s jaw drops for a moment and he just stares. “Are you serious? Are you bloody serious? You don’t have to almost die to show me that some spirit I could care less about cares about me. I don’t care if she cares about me! What about you? Don’t you see that people care about you?”

Sherlock scoffs. “People don’t care about me, John. People get things from me. I’m the wish granter. I grant wishes and strike deals.”

John just stares at him. Something is twisting inside his chest, something painful and desperate. “I care about you, you cock! I had nothing at all in this entire world before I met you, don’t you know that? I didn’t care if I lived or died, but you changed that, you idiot. Where would I be without you? Christ, you can’t just do things like that!”

He hasn’t meant to say so much, really he hasn’t, but he can’t take it back now, and he finds himself unable to look away from Sherlock, his words hanging heavy in the air between them. Sherlock’s eyes had widened fractionally at John’s words, but they’re back to normal now. Sherlock looks away for a moment, and John swallows, his eyes trained on Sherlock even though Sherlock’s not looking back at him. Sherlock looks down at the ground, avoiding John’s gaze, and speaks. 

“That was…remiss of me. I’m surprised to find that you…that you care about me.” His words are measured, and he clears his throat uncomfortably. “In my work, there is no room for caring. This is an unusual situation.” He stops speaking, and John’s heart is pounding again. He’s just about to reply, to say something he’s sure will be monumentally stupid, but Sherlock suddenly looks up, his brow furrowed. “But I’m here now, and so are you. We’re both alive, aren’t we?”

John frowns in thought. Sherlock is uncharacteristically serious, and he’s not sure how to take this. John’s angry, yes, but something about the way Sherlock is looking at him makes him pause for a moment; for the first time since he’s known him, he sees Sherlock as vulnerable, and he’s not sure how to process this.

“We are,” John finally says. “Let’s keep it that way, yeah?”

Sherlock smiles at him for a moment, and then reaches down for the tote bag, long forgotten. He picks it up and pulls Billy out, holding him in front of his face. “Thank you for helping John,” Sherlock says, his voice surprisingly earnest.

“I didn’t do anything, really,” Billy says. “He did quite well, though, didn’t he?”

Sherlock looks up at John and smiles. “Yes. He did.”

John’s heart skips a beat when he sees the sincerity on Sherlock’s face. He smiles, his anger softening. “Dinner?”

Sherlock’s eyes crinkle in the corners as he replies. “Starving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this part! I'm sorry about the delay for this chapter; it's quite unusual for me and won't happen again, but I had some difficult RL circumstances last week. But things should be back to normal now! Also, the past few chapters have been a lot of world-building, but a lot of the bigger plot points will start kicking in soon, so get ready. :) Thanks for reading! As usual, I'd love to hear your thoughts on the story!
> 
> and if you'd like, feel free to [follow me on tumblr](http://slashscribe.tumblr.com)! :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long wait, everyone! This story hasn't been abandoned, and updates will be much more regular from now on. I got sick over the summer around the time that I stopped posting new chapters of this, and I was sick for a few months - from July until around October. But I got out of the habit of writing/posting as RL took over. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy the new chapter. There will be many more to come. :)

**Part Seven**

 

John’s laughing as he swallows the last bite of his sandwich, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “No, I’m not joking,” he insists, as soon as his mouth is free of food. “I came home and opened the fridge and – _bam_ , an entire human head.”

 

Mary laughs. It’s a light and delicate flutter of sound against the quiet of the clinic’s break room, almost the exact opposite of the rich, dark chuckle John’s accustomed to hearing at home. “And does this one talk, too, like the skull?” she asks, head tilted and a playful smile on her lips.

 

John snorts as he rotates his bad shoulder a bit; it has been stiff all day. “I don’t think so, but it might do, knowing Sherlock.”

 

Mary smiles in agreement, but then glances up at the clock and stands abruptly, her face turning serious. “It’s already 1:50,” she says. “Time flies, doesn’t it?”

 

“Oh, bugger,” John says, crumpling the bag he’d brought his sandwich in and standing as well. “Back to work, I guess.”

 

Mary smiles and walks past him, accidentally brushing his shoulder with hers on her way. “You’ve got a patient in ten minutes! Best be ready!” she calls over her shoulder as she heads out of the break room, leaving John alone. He watches her go with a smile, rotating his shoulder once more. She really is quite lovely, he thinks.

 

\--

 

By the time John’s shift at the clinic is over, he’s gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder. It’s acute, driving him to distraction. He’s so eager to get home that he takes a cab, even though it costs him quite a bit more than he’d planned on spending.

 

He drags himself up the stairs to the flat, massaging his shoulder as best he can as he goes. It doesn’t really help against the pain, but it makes him feel as if he’s doing something about it, which is better than nothing.

 

There aren’t any sounds coming from inside the flat, and while that would be a sign of a peaceful home for most people, it makes him a bit worried about exactly what Sherlock could be getting up to in there. A quiet Sherlock is not always a good sign, and so he opens the door and braces himself for the worst, hoping Sherlock isn’t doing anything too crazy as he’s not in the mood to deal with it.

 

“John,” Sherlock calls before John’s even made it through the doorway. He sounds urgent, and John hastily goes inside and looks towards the living room, where Sherlock’s voice is coming from, but Sherlock is merely sitting on the couch staring at him, his fingers steepled under his chin, the calculating squint of his eyes betraying the calm pose of his body.

 

John stares for a moment and pauses just inside the doorway, his brow furrowing in confusion, before shaking his head and going straight to his chair, sinking into it gratefully. “Have you just been sitting there waiting for me to come home?” he asks, his hand immediately finding his shoulder again and massaging it. He can’t help the twinge of pain that clouds his expression, but if Sherlock sees it, he doesn’t comment.

 

“We have somewhere to go,” Sherlock says, ignoring John’s question as usual. “But we can’t leave until it’s dark.”

 

John sighs. He lets go of his shoulder in favor of rubbing his hand over his face in exhaustion. “Right,” he says, voice flat, his hand cupping his chin as he watches Sherlock. “And where is it that we _have_ to go?”

 

“You’ll see,” Sherlock tells him. “There’s no sense in trying to explain.” He stands without warning, heading towards the kitchen as if he intends to end the conversation.

 

John’s jaw clenches as he watches him go, his irritation building and mixing with the pain in his shoulder. “Why, because I’m so thick I can’t bloody understand it? Is that it?” he calls into the kitchen.

 

“Someone’s a little grumpy,” Billy remarks from where he’s perched on the bookshelf.

 

John swivels his head to glare at him. “I think I’ve a right to be,” he says. “I’m not an idiot, and I don’t appreciate being treated like one.”

 

Sherlock goes back to the doorway to the living room and leans against it, watching John with a neutral expression on his face. “No one said you were,” he says.

 

“Then what do you mean, there’s no sense in explaining where we’re going?” John asks. When no answer is forthcoming, he continues. “I don’t have the patience for this right now; it’s been an absolute rubbish day from the moment I saw that stupid head in the fridge until now.”

 

“Ooh, I’d be careful if I were you, Sherlock, he seems a bit worked up,” Billy warns, and John turns to glare at him again as Sherlock merely smiles.

 

“I wouldn’t say it’s been bad since this morning,” Sherlock says. “I think it was alright until lunch. You ate with Mary, didn’t you?”

 

John gives a huff of frustration. “Would you bloody leave off her a bit? How do you even know I had lunch with her?”

 

Sherlock shrugs. “She touched your shoulder.” He lazily points in the general direction of John’s bad shoulder.

 

John’s jaw drops a bit, and he just stares at Sherlock for a moment. “You’re a bloody-”

 

“Anyway,” Sherlock interrupts pointedly before John can finish. “I’m not telling you where we’re going because I’d rather you experience it than listen to an explanation. I’m well aware you have the mental capacity to understand its description, but it’s a place and an experience to which words cannot do justice.” He pushes himself off the doorjamb and goes back into the kitchen, walking with a stiff posture that John knows means he’s irritated, but John’s not really bothered by that, not when he’s so irritated himself.

 

The sound of dishes clinking against each other is coming from the kitchen, and it’s familiar and not familiar all at once, considering that John himself is usually the source of the noise. Such a sound coming from Sherlock is worrying at best, and John rubs his forehead, wondering what Sherlock’s getting up to in there, and hoping that whatever it is, he doesn’t leave too big a mess.

 

“How’s Mary?” Billy asks, pulling John from his ruminations.

 

“She’s fine,” he says, wary of the topic of Mary considering the way Sherlock seems to dislike her. “She went to Brighton for her birthday.”

 

“Alone?” Billy asks.

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock says, coming into the living room carrying a cup of tea. John raises his eyebrows in surprise, his mouth falling open just a bit as his eyes flit from the cup and up to Sherlock’s face and back to the cup again as Sherlock presses it into his hands.

 

“Er, ta,” John says. He feels quite caught off guard even though it’s only a cup of tea. It’s warm against his fingers, and he feels some of his irritation slide away, as much as he’d like to hold onto it.

 

Sherlock doesn’t reply, only sits across from him in his own chair and watches John as usual.

 

John takes a sip, and the liquid is hot against his tongue. It’s a well-prepared cup, and he eyes Sherlock suspiciously. “Have you done something to this?” he asks.

 

“No,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. “You’re clearly in pain. You seem to appreciate tea when there’s a problem. Therefore, I made you a cup of tea.”

 

Despite his annoyance, John can’t help but smile, and he takes another sip. “It’s quite good,” he says. “Maybe you should make tea more often.”

 

“Not a chance,” Sherlock says immediately. “I only made it today because you’re of no use to me in a bad mood.”

 

John snorts. He’s not surprised, and neither is he offended. “Anyway,” he continues after a moment. “Why is it so obvious Mary went to Brighton by herself? Are you keeping tabs on her?”

 

“Don’t be dull,” Sherlock says. “Of course I’m not; you know I don’t have time for things like that.”

 

“I suppose you wouldn’t, between sulking on the sofa and sitting there staring at the door waiting for me to come home,” John says before blowing across the surface of his tea. Billy laughs from the bookcase, his jaw thumping against the shelf, and John grins.

 

Sherlock sighs. “Honestly, John, I don’t sulk, and I don’t sit here waiting for you to come home. I am quite busy. It’s obvious Mary went to Brighton alone because she’s estranged from her family and she has difficulty keeping friends. It’s not a hard leap to make.”

 

“I don’t really understand why she has a problem making friends,” John says with a frown. “She’s always friendly.”

 

“She doesn’t have a problem _making_ friends,” Sherlock corrects. “She has a problem _keeping_ them.”

 

John frowns. “Oh. Right. Still, I don’t get it.”

 

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, then stands and grabs Billy. He tosses him in the air before catching him.

 

“Oi!” Billy says. “I’m not a bloody ball!”

 

“Yeah, don’t throw Billy,” John says, taking a sip of tea. “It’s not on.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and holds Billy out in front of him, staring at him intently. “Come on, then,” he tells him. “Let’s get ready for tonight.” He turns to John, tucking Billy under his arm. “We’ll be in 221C if you need us,” he says.

 

“Are you eating dinner, then?” John asks.

 

“No, too busy,” Sherlock says, slamming the door behind him. John sighs as he listens to Sherlock bound down the stairs, wondering where exactly he’ll be going later that evening. With a grimace, he stands, going to the kitchen to search for something in the fridge besides the head so he can at least eat before he goes to who-knows-where with Sherlock.

 

\--

 

John hasn’t realized he’s fallen asleep until his text alert invades his consciousness. He comes awake with a surprised start, his body jerking, before he blinks the sleep out of his eyes and winces at the pain in his shoulder, which is increasingly sharp. He tries to process the sound that woke him and when he realizes it’s his phone, he pulls it out of his pocket. The flat is dark around him, and his screen glows bright against the darkness. He’s not surprised to see that his text is from Sherlock.

 

_Supplies are ready. Need your assistance. 221C. –SH_

John rolls his eyes at the abruptness of the text even as the corner of his lip quirks into a small smile. He stands and tucks his phone into his pocket, trying to keep his bad shoulder as still as he can all the while. It feels as if knives are twisting inside his joint, and his breaths are coming sharper and faster than usual he tries to breathe through the pain, but he does his best to push it to the back of his mind and focus on something else.

 

The door to 221C is unlocked, and the lights are on as he opens the door. It’s the same organized chaos of mysterious items that he remembers from the first time he was down here, the time he’d found Billy. It seems like years ago now, and the time before Sherlock is like a hazy memory, indistinct and unimportant, though in reality, it’s only about a month or so prior.

 

Sherlock is sitting on the dusty floor in an area cleared of clutter, looking perfectly at home with his rolled up sleeves and mussed hair amongst the rows and rows of strange objects. He looks up as John makes his way over, his expression serious and focused.

 

“John, good,” he says. “We’ll need to get started quickly.”

 

“Get started doing what, exactly?” John asks, eyeing the items Sherlock has placed around him in his little clutter-free zone dubiously. Billy is across from Sherlock, wearing the same unreadable skull’s expression he always wears, but there is also a large decorative vase, almost like an urn, and a tall glass bottle of what appears to be water.

 

“Going out for the evening,” Sherlock says. He eyes John speculatively for a moment, then pushes up off the floor, dusting himself off as soon as he’s standing. He reaches down again and picks up Billy, handing him off to John. “You take Billy,” he says. “I suppose you shouldn’t take anything heavier with your shoulder.”

 

John is surprised by Sherlock’s thoughtfulness, but before he can comment on it, Sherlock continues.

 

“These other two are very precious, and I can’t risk you dropping them, even though it really should be your job to carry them, don’t you think?”

 

“Hey! Aren’t I precious, too?” Billy asks.

 

“And why is it my job to carry everything?” John adds.

 

“It’s part of your payment, John,” Sherlock reminds him. “And Billy, John surely won’t drop you, considering your light weight and the sentimental nature of how he views you. John _is_ quite…sentimental, after all.”

 

John’s not sure whether to be insulted or flattered, and he sighs, watching as Sherlock bends down to carefully pick up the glass bottle. It seems like water is inside, but as the light hits it, it sparkles, iridescent rainbow colors refracting off the liquid. It’s unlike any water John’s ever seen.

 

“Is that water?” John asks curiously.

 

“It _was_ water,” Sherlock says, looking at it with a small smile on his face.

 

When nothing more seems to be forthcoming and John is left staring at Sherlock expectantly, John’s eyes narrow in mild frustration. “Right, it was water, and now it’s…?”

 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything for a moment, eyes still trained on the liquid until he glances at John in confusion. “Do you realize you didn’t finish your sentence?”

 

John laughs, shaking his head, wondering not for the first time how someone such as Sherlock even exists. “I was hoping you would finish it for me.”

 

“Oh,” Sherlock says, blinking for a moment. His eyes go unfocused somewhere to the right of John’s shoulder, and it looks as if his brain is rewinding through the conversation, and John grins as he watches. “Right,” Sherlock continues. “Now it’s a form of purified water, in a sense. Purified by magic, connected by its very essence to another place in which this water exists.”

 

John’s brow furrows and his lips purse as he wonders if that explanation is supposed to make sense to him. “Right, okay,” he says after a moment, and Billy laughs in his hands, which makes John grin despite his confusion.

 

Sherlock eyes the two of them, then shakes his head, reaching down to pick up the urn and hold it in his other arm. It’s quite large, perhaps twenty-five centimeters tall or so, and it has a wide opening on top. It looks to be some kind of fine china, and it’s pure white, adorned with beautiful daffodils in royal blue.

 

“You’ll have to get the door,” Sherlock says, the urn tucked under one arm and the bottle of whatever-it-is held in the other.

 

“Alright,” John says, walking ahead of him up to their flat. Once there, Sherlock instructs him to leave Billy on the mantle.

 

“Is the mantle really alright for you?” John asks Billy as he sets him down. “Would you rather the table or the bookshelf or something? Must be rough, not being able to move once you’ve been put down somewhere.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Honestly, John, he’s a _skull_ , he doesn’t care,” he says.

 

“Actually, the table might be nice for a change, facing the door, if you don’t mind?” Billy asks.

 

John smiles. “No problem,” he says, doing as Billy asked and setting him down on the table.

 

“Nice that somebody here thinks about what I want once in a while,” Billy says pointedly.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Honestly, this is nonsense,” he says. “Enjoy the table; John is clearly a saint waiting to be canonized.”

 

John laughs and doesn’t resist when Sherlock nudges his ankle with the tip of his shoe, gesturing towards the stairs with his head. “Go on, John, upstairs,” he says, and John immediately heads up the stairs.

 

“Why are we going to my room?” John asks in confusion as Sherlock follows closely behind him.

 

“Oi! Forget about me already? At least say goodbye!” Billy calls.

 

“See you later, Billy,” John calls back absently.

 

“Honestly, you don’t need to give in to his every whim,” Sherlock mutters.

 

John laughs. “You love him, I know you do,” he says. “You only pretend not to care.”

 

Sherlock gives a harrumph of a sound from behind him, and John grins.

 

“Enough of this,” Sherlock says, following John into his room. “We’re going to the roof, and we don’t have a lot of time.” He sets the water and urn down on John’s desk for a moment and opens the window, letting in a rush of late summer’s cool night air. It’s crisp against the warm air of John’s bedroom, and John feels his excitement for the evening begin to build.

 

Sherlock climbs through the window easily, his long limbs passing through the small space with grace and ease which, to John, doesn’t make sense; he should have _some_ trouble getting through such a small space with his absurdly long limbs, but he’s like a graceful swan, much to John’s chagrin. He’s already eyeing the window with narrowed eyes, thinking about the logistics of getting himself through the small space without jostling his shoulder.

 

“Pass me the urn and the water, one at a time,” Sherlock says, leaning down to look at John through the open window.

 

John nods and carefully picks up the urn. It’s surprisingly heavy, and he passes it gently to Sherlock, then does the same with the water, which is lighter than it looks. Sherlock sets them both down behind him on the fire escape, and then steps to the side.

 

“Come on, then, John, now you,” he says.

 

John’s a bit worried about climbing through the window, but as he goes, pain stabbing through his shoulder from the movement, Sherlock helps him through with steady, warm hands, and John can’t help but smile as he gets his footing on the fire escape, straightening his clothes and pushing the window back down until it’s only open a crack. Sherlock picks up the urn and the water and heads up the stairs, and John follows, anticipation crackling over his skin. He has no idea what they’re doing on the roof, but he’s excited to find out. He likes when he gets the chance to see this mysterious, powerful side of Sherlock.

 

Sherlock looks up at the sky through narrowed eyes once they’ve reached the top of the stairs. He looks as if he’s searching for something, but John can’t imagine what that something might be. Nonetheless, Sherlock gives a satisfied nod and heads to the center of the roof.

 

“Quickly, John, the moon is moving and we haven’t much time,” he says.

 

John follows, watching Sherlock with rapt curiosity. He hadn’t been sure what to expect when Sherlock said they were going out, and though he knew something normal like a restaurant was highly unlikely, this is a scenario he never could have imagined.

 

“Er, Sherlock -”

 

“Take the water, John, and pour it in here,” Sherlock says as he sets the urn down. He crouches down next to it, positioning it carefully, and he doesn’t look up as he speaks.

 

John crouches down beside him, ignoring his shoulder, and takes the water. Carefully, slowly, he pours it into the urn, watching as the moonlight reflects off of it, sending prisms of light into the air.

 

“It’s quite beautiful,” he says, taken aback by the sight.

 

Sherlock makes a noncommittal hum of agreement as he watches John pour, and his hands tight around the urn, keeping it in place.

 

“You made this water?” John asks, glancing quickly at Sherlock’s face then back at the liquid, lest he accidentally spill some.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says simply, his eyes still trained on the flow of the liquid, and John is in awe for a moment, wondering not for the first time exactly what kinds of things Sherlock can do. Inexplicably, he finds that his heart is beating a little bit faster.

 

When the liquid is finally transferred, Sherlock gestures for him to set the bottle down, so John carefully places it beside him. He hears a jingling sound, and when he looks up, Sherlock is carefully dropping a large handful of small, clear crystals into the urn. They’re no larger than small shards of broken glass, but they sparkle in the moonlight, refracting colors like prisms. The colorful light dances over the contours of Sherlock’s face, dipping into the hollows and ridges of his cheekbones and nose.

 

“Kneel just where you are,” Sherlock instructs as the last of the crystals fall from his fingers and the rainbow of light fades from his face, and then he shifts until he’s kneeling across from John, on the other side of the urn. He looks up at the sky again, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed, then looks back at John.

 

“Now put your hands on the urn,” Sherlock says.

 

John’s hands hover over the urn for a moment and he looks up at Sherlock questioningly until Sherlock rolls his eyes and takes John’s hands in his, placing them around the urn, just below the opening. Sherlock keeps his hands over John’s, his long fingers curled around John’s wrists. John’s surprised when they stay, and he’s suddenly very aware of every miniscule movement in his fingers and every point in which Sherlock’s skin touches his.

 

The night air is cool around them, and it feels quiet up on the roof, far removed from the traffic below. Sherlock’s fingers are warm on John’s wrists, and John looks up at Sherlock again, about to ask a question, to say something to diffuse the strange tension that’s settled over them, to ask what is supposed to happen next, when Sherlock’s features suddenly sharpen into a focused expression.

 

“Now,” Sherlock says. “John, look into the water.”

 

John looks down immediately, his heart beating faster again, and he watches as the reflection of the moon inches over the water’s surface.

 

“Don’t look away,” Sherlock murmurs, his fingers tightening on John’s wrists.

 

John swallows, his throat dry, and resists the temptation to look up at Sherlock. Instead, he focuses on the surface of the water, watches as the silvery reflection of the moon shifts over it, watches as the water crests in iridescent waves, watches until finally the moon overtakes the entire surface, and then, he is gone.

 

\--

 

When John is aware of himself again, Sherlock’s fingers are still circled around his wrists, and he almost chokes until Sherlock tightens his grip. John opens his eyes and realizes he’s underwater, staring across from himself at Sherlock, who is grinning as air bubbles drift out his nose.

 

The situation is surreal and John feels a sense of panic rise within him. He resists the urge to breathe and keeps his eyes locked on Sherlock’s, which are squinting in joy. It helps to ground him, and he watches as Sherlock’s hair swirls around his face, as the collar of his shirt drifts weightlessly up his long, pale neck, as his grin widens, and some of his panic recedes. He knows Sherlock won’t let him drown here. Sherlock releases one of John’s hands and points to the surface, then turns away to swim upward with one arm, the other tight around John’s wrist to lead him.

 

John follows, swimming as fast as he can, grateful that he can see the surface of the water and eager to get there before he runs out of air. He wonders how he has ended up here, and he’s grateful for the feeling of Sherlock’s fingers clamped around his wrist. The water is pleasantly warm; almost soothing, and he’s filled suddenly with the urge to laugh. When he looks around him, he can see that he’s surrounded by little flecks of crystal, gleaming where they float under the water. They look the same as the ones Sherlock had sifted carefully into the urn, and for as beautiful as they had been in the moonlight on the roof, they are stunning underwater. He shifts the hand in Sherlock’s grip until his fingers grasp Sherlock’s wrist in return, squeezing a little bit as they head towards the surface. Sherlock glances back at him, still grinning, and gives his arm a tug, and then John surfaces, gasping for air.

 

Sherlock doesn’t let go of his wrist for a moment, and so John keeps his fingers where they are as he breathes deeply, shaking his head and blinking water out of his eyes. When he looks around, he finds that he’s in a pond, next to a large oak tree. Wildflowers surround the edge of the pond.

 

“I’ve been here before,” he blurts, though he’d meant to yell at Sherlock and ask him why he didn’t think to mention he’d end up underwater.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “To meet the spirit who took my soul.”

 

“Is she here, then?” John asks, looking around.

 

Sherlock shakes his head. “She’s here somewhere, since she lives in this world, but I don’t think she’s _here_.”

 

John treads water and looks over at Sherlock, whose hair is flat against his head and dripping down his sharp cheekbones. He can’t help but giggle, the absurdity of the situation overwhelming him. Arriving in a pond full of suspended crystals staring at a madman is absurd enough; looking at said madman with his sopping wet hair plastered on his head and dripping down his equally absurd cheekbones is icing on the cake, and it’s almost too much for John to process.

 

“What?” Sherlock asks. He sounds perturbed.

 

John grins, likening him to a sulky drowned cat, and gestures at his hair with his free hand before dissolving into giggles all over again. Sherlock rolls his eyes, but then he shifts closer to John and reaches up, mussing his hair and sending it into thick, wet spikes all over John’s head.

 

“Yours isn’t much better,” Sherlock says, grinning.

 

John laughs and tugs his hand free from Sherlock’s grip to splash him. Sherlock sputters, blinking rapidly, and John realizes his heart is soaring, that floating here in this pond underneath clear blue skies, splashing Sherlock, is bliss. The thought only lasts for a moment, though, until Sherlock’s hands are on his shoulders pushing him under.

 

John struggles against his hands, limbs flailing, before he manages to make his way to the surface. He gasps and laughs, and then dives for Sherlock, who laughs and dunks underwater, swimming quickly away from John. They chase each other back and forth for a while, their clothes floating awkwardly around their bodies, shoes probably ruined, but John doesn’t mind.

 

After a while of splashing and wrestling in the water, they finally stop to rest, treading water in the deep center of the pond again, facing each other as the last of their laughter leaves their bodies.

 

“So this is where you wanted to take me?” John asks, breathing heavily.

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock says, water dripping down his face, and John can’t help but grin.

 

“Right, obviously,” he says, eyes crinkling in the corners. “And why did we come here? Don’t get me wrong; I’m happy to ruin my clothes in a pond, but I _am_ a bit curious.”

 

“Your clothes will be fine,” Sherlock says dismissively. “This isn’t regular water. It dries quite quickly and leaves very little evidence of its presence. But we have two things to accomplish here. I believe one is accomplished already.”

 

“Er, taking a swim?” John guesses, though he knows it’s likely to be wrong.

 

Sherlock shakes his head, a small smile twisting his lips. “In a manner of speaking.” He shifts closer to John in the water and reaches out to rest his hand on John’s bad shoulder, giving it a bit of a squeeze. “How’s your shoulder?” he asks.

 

John looks down at Sherlock’s hand, then back up at his face, his mouth slightly open and his eyebrows a bit higher than usual. “It’s fine,” he says, voice light in wonder and surprise as he realizes there’s no pain at all in his shoulder. His eyes, more open than usual under his raised brows, flicker over Sherlock’s face, taking in his pleased expression. “It’s – how did you-”

 

“This is a place of highly concentrated spiritual energy. I haven’t healed your shoulder; it’s liable to give you trouble in the future if you do something to stress it. But today, it was exacerbated by…” He pauses, eyes looking away from John for a moment as he thinks, before continuing. “By negative energy. I knew the water here would help you,” Sherlock says. His hand is still warm on John’s shoulder, his thumb rubbing circles into John’s watery shirt.

 

“Negative energy?” John asks, ignoring the warmth of Sherlock’s hand to focus on the conversation.

 

Sherlock smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yes,” he says.

 

John frowns. He wants to ask Sherlock more, but he doesn’t want to have that conversation here, where everything is so idyllic and magical, and so he leaves it for the moment. “So, the water you made – you meant that it was connected to this pond?”

 

Sherlock seems surprised at the conversation change, but his smile widens, and he seems relieved. “Exactly,” he says.

 

“Brilliant,” John says, unabashedly impressed. “Absolutely incredible. Thank you for bringing me here.”

 

Sherlock smiles and John is suddenly very aware of Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder, and of the few centimeters of water between them. He’s rarely eye-to-eye with Sherlock given their height difference, but here in the water, their faces are level, and his eyes flicker over Sherlock’s features. He finds himself entranced for a moment, taken in by the flush of color blooming on Sherlock’s cheeks and the magic that surrounds them, until suddenly, Sherlock lets his hand drop back into the water with a splash.

 

John jerks away, shocked by the sudden movement, his heart beating quickly in his chest.

 

“We’ve still got more to do, we really shouldn’t linger,” Sherlock says with a tight smile, turning away from John to swim towards the shore. “Shall we go?”

 

John blinks, his mind jumping out of its trancelike state and jolting back into action as he watches Sherlock swim further and further away. He clears his throat. “Right, yeah,” he says, though Sherlock is likely to far away to hear, and swims after Sherlock.

When they climb out of the water, their clothes sticking awkwardly to their bodies, the air is pleasantly warm. John tugs his shirt away from his chest, giving it a squeeze to try and get some water out.

 

“It’ll dry in a few minutes,” Sherlock says. He plops down on the grass, lying back and folding his hands behind his head.

 

John looks at him, at the long line of his body, at the natural grace in which he moves, at the way in which he somehow looks like he belongs no matter where he goes, and he sits beside him with a sigh, folding his knees in front of his chest and wrapping his arms around them, looking out over the pond.

 

“Come down here,” Sherlock says. “Your clothes won’t dry well that way; the sun can’t get at them.”

 

John glances over his shoulder at Sherlock, who’s watching him expectantly, and something clenches in his chest at the sight. He ignores it and lays down beside Sherlock, copying his position and folding his arms behind his head as well.

 

“Why is it daytime?” John asks suddenly.

 

A huff of laughter comes from Sherlock, and John turns his head to glance at him, smiling a bit at the sound.

 

“Why is it ever daytime?” Sherlock asks, grinning at John.

 

John sighs even as a smile overtakes his mouth. He turns and looks up at the sky. “Nothing is ever normal with you, is it?”

 

“Normal’s boring,” Sherlock says. John knows without looking that he’s smiling. “What _is_ normal, John? That’s the important question. To me, this place is normal. For most people, perhaps it’s not. How can anyone really define what’s normal and what’s not? It’s completely subjective.”

 

“That’s a bit philosophical, isn’t it?” John remarks, eyes following a small butterfly that flies over their heads.

 

“It’s not philosophy, it’s fact,” Sherlock replies.

 

John laughs, closing his eyes against the warmth of the sun as he does. “I was normal before I met you, I think,” he says, once the laughter has passed. He opens his eyes to turn and look at Sherlock once more, taking in his profile as Sherlock looks up at the sky.

 

Sherlock turns and looks at him with a small smile, one side of his mouth quirked upwards. “You were never normal, John,” he says. His voice is surprisingly gentle. “And you never will be.”

 

John blinks, unsure of Sherlock’s tone, unsure of the small smile on his face. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult,” he admits, his own voice softer, his eyes locked on Sherlock’s. Something seems to be threading between them, some kind of intimacy that settles over John’s skin like the warmth of the sunlight above them.

 

Sherlock’s eyes crinkle in the corners, and his eyebrows soften. “I told you, John. Normal’s boring. You’re quite the opposite.”

 

John feels warmth bloom over his cheeks and he hastily turns his head to look back up at the sky, his heart beating faster. A small smile curves on his lips. “I suppose normal is a bit overrated,” he concedes, eyes trained on the clear blue sky above them.

 

He hears a rustle beside him and knows that Sherlock has turned his head back towards the sky.

 

“So this place…where is it, exactly?” John asks.

 

“That’s difficult to answer,” Sherlock says. “I guess you could say it’s a different world; the world of the spirits.”

 

“Ghosts?” John asks, turning towards Sherlock again.

 

“No, not quite,” Sherlock said. “More like…hmm, I suppose you could consider them gods. They’re spirits who watch over a certain part of the world. You met the spirit of good fortune here, remember?”

 

John snorts. “I don’t know if she really brought good fortune to us,” he says.

 

Sherlock shrugs. “She tried to, and she arguably succeeded in her own way, but the results weren’t what we expected them to be.”

 

John’s not sure she succeeded when he remembers the stark terror he felt when Sherlock slumped over in the park, but he _did_ learn how to find Sherlock through the strange door in his closet, and he thinks that he and Sherlock have grown closer since that day, so he supposes it isn’t a complete loss.

 

He’s still thinking about it when Sherlock suddenly hops to his feet, extending an arm towards John. “Our clothes are dry,” he says. “Let’s go.”

 

John blinks and looks down at his clothes. He realizes with a start that they are, in fact, dry. He frowns as he takes Sherlock’s hand, standing up and then brushing off his clothes. “How are they dry so quickly? Even my shoes and socks are dry!”

 

“The water has magical properties,” Sherlock says. “It doesn’t last for a long time outside of a vessel designed for containing it, such as the foundations of that pond or the urn we used at Baker Street. Between that and the sun, it only takes a few minutes.”

 

“Brilliant,” John says again, voice breathy as he stares down at his clothes, then back up at Sherlock’s face.

 

Sherlock grins. “Come on, we have important business to attend to.”

 

Again, they’re off, but this time, they’re walking through the meadow towards the edge of an adjoining forest. It’s dark when they enter the forest; the trees create a thick covering above their heads to block out the sun. The temperature drops a bit, too, and John shivers as they walk deeper into the darkness.

 

Despite the lack of a clear path, Sherlock walks with confidence and determination, and John struggles to keep up with his long stride.

 

“It’s best not to stay here for too long,” Sherlock says in an almost apologetic tone when he notices John’s quick pace.

 

John’s quite sure that’s an understatement if he’s ever heard one, and he’s glad to be in Sherlock’s presence; he can’t imagine trying to get through this forest alone. It’s strange and cold, and it’s giving him a bit of a headache. The meadow had felt warm and soothing, but it’s different here. The atmosphere reminds him of the spirits who follow him down the street and latch onto him.

 

“Stay close,” Sherlock says. “This isn’t the best place for you, especially, but you’re fine as long as you’re with me.”

 

John doesn’t need to be told twice, and he steps closer to Sherlock, so close that their arms brush as they walk quickly through the forest. They walk for a few minutes in relative silence, the only sounds those of their feet crunching through the underbrush and the occasional distant rustle in the trees that John doesn’t want to think about, until finally John can see a clearing.

 

There’s a house up ahead, a large manor-like estate in a perfectly round clearing. The clearing is lined with a circle of what has to be hundreds of brightly colored hydrangeas, all in vibrant full bloom. John and Sherlock step through the only gap in the hydrangeas onto a stone pathway that leads to the front door. The pathway is lined with daffodils, just like the ones on the urn they’d travelled through.

 

“We’re here,” Sherlock says. He’s scowling, and he glares at the house up ahead as if it’s personally wronged him somehow.

 

John frowns, looking between Sherlock and the house. “Er, you don't seem very pleased to be here,” he remarks. He’s itching to ask more, but he knows Sherlock is less than forthcoming about this kind of thing.

 

“I’m not,” he says. “But we have to collect payment.”

 

“Collect payment?” John asks, following Sherlock towards the door.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “Your payment.” Sherlock looks at him for just a moment before turning towards the door. He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, then raises his hand to knock on the door, only to have it pulled open before his hand can settle on the wood; instead it hovers for a moment before falling to rest at his side.

 

“Ah, Sherlock, what a lovely surprise.” The voice is oily smooth and accompanied by a bland smile, and John’s jaw drops.

 

“Mycroft!” John says. “You live…here?”

 

Mycroft looks John over once, his eyes clearly taking in more than John can imagine or is comfortable with, and then turns back to Sherlock. “Still hasn’t gotten rid of that _charming_ young woman, has he?”

 

“Not now, Mycroft,” Sherlock says.

 

“I can hear you, you know,” John mutters. Sherlock turns to him and gives him a small, clearly amused smile.

 

“Interesting,” Mycroft says, and then Sherlock scowls again, glaring at Mycroft and crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“We’re here for John’s payment,” he says. He sounds sulky once more, and John can’t help the way the corner of his mouth twitches.

 

“Of course, do come in,” Mycroft says. He opens the door and stands to the side, giving John and Sherlock a bland smile as he gestures them in.

 

John bites back the _look_ he wants to share with Sherlock, and instead, settles for a tight smile with raised eyebrows to Mycroft. He looks around, hands shoved in his pockets, and is not surprised that the interior of Mycroft’s home is decorated in deep mahogany, with many lush carpets and rugs in the hallway and foyer.

 

“Wait here,” Mycroft says, gesturing towards a couch in his expansive foyer. “I’ll be just a moment.”

 

Mycroft opens a door and John listens to his footsteps fade away before turning to Sherlock, one eyebrow raised. “I can’t believe this is Mycroft’s house,” he says, his voice conspiratorially low as he glancing around at the raised ceilings and airy windows.

 

“What were you expecting?” Sherlock asks, dropping inelegantly onto Mycroft’s overstuffed floral print couch, a bored expression on his face.

 

John sits beside him and looks up at the elaborate chandelier for a moment, then turns to Sherlock with a crooked smile. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Something a bit more…moldy?”

 

Sherlock laughs, and it echoes loud and rich in Mycroft’s foyer. John can’t help but join in, his shoulders shaking as he tries to quell his laughter.

 

“Having fun?” Mycroft drawls suddenly from where he’s reappeared in the doorway, one eyebrow arched.

 

John looks over and gives a small, amused smile. “Quite,” he says. “Ta.”

 

Sherlock snorts beside him, and John grins as Mycroft comes closer, holding a long tube in his hands. It’s silver, and the top end clearly unscrews from the much longer bottom.

 

“Your payment,” Mycroft says, extending the tube towards John. Sherlock sits up straight, eyeing the tube shrewdly. John looks at Sherlock with raised eyebrows and Sherlock nods, so John reaches out and takes the tube.

 

“Thanks,” John says to Mycroft. “I think.”

 

Mycroft gives another tight, insincere smile, but doesn’t say anything, just inclines his head. Sherlock stands and John follows suit, still holding the tube carefully, wondering what’s inside. It’s not particularly heavy, but neither is it particularly light. It makes no sound when he moves it, and he doesn’t get any strange feeling from it, like he would if it were some kind of bad spirit. His curiosity is piqued, and he’s eager to open the tube.

 

“We’ll be going, then,” Sherlock says. John looks up at the sound of his voice, pushing thoughts of the tube to the background for the time being. “Hopefully we won’t see you again anytime soon, Mycroft.”

 

Mycroft smiles his usual thin smile. “Going so soon? Pity,” he says.

 

Sherlock gives a short huff of laughter. “Yes, quite.”

 

“I should think you’d be pleased to have this back in your possession,” Mycroft says, gesturing towards the tube.

 

“It’s not in my possession,” Sherlock says. “It’s in John’s.”

 

“Is that really so different?” Mycroft asks, a brow arched, and Sherlock stares at him quietly for a moment, then turns on his heel and walks towards the door.

 

“Say hello to Redbeard, then,” Mycroft says with a smile, just as they get to the door.

 

Sherlock turns and glares at him. “Piss off, Mycroft,” he says.

 

Mycroft laughs. “Eloquent as ever, Sherlock,” he says.

 

Sherlock turns and walks away from Mycroft’s door, back towards the forest, and John looks back and forth between them for a moment, taking in Sherlock’s increasingly distant back and Mycroft’s obnoxiously amused countenance, then nods in Mycroft’s general direction and jogs to catch up with Sherlock, leaving Mycroft’s house without a second glance in his direction.

 

“I think his umbrella might be up his arse,” John mutters as soon as they’re out of earshot.

 

Sherlock laughs, his scowl disappearing, and grins at John. “Nothing new about that,” he says. Now that they’re out of Mycroft’s presence, Sherlock seems to be filled with a sort of manic energy. He steps into the forest and John crowds him as he had before, the chill immediately descending over them.

 

“So what is this?” John asks, holding the tube out to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock smiles, and John is surprised by its sincerity. “You’ll see,” he says. He seems excited, though it’s clear he’s trying not to show it by the stiffness in his shoulders and the way his mouth keeps reverting to straight line then twitching into a grin. “Actually, it used to belong to me when I was a child.”

 

“Really?” John asks, looking down at the tube. “Why does Mycroft have it?”

 

“He won it in a bet,” Sherlock says sourly. “Also, he said I couldn’t take care of it properly. He was just jealous,” he adds with a scowl.

 

“How do you use it?” John asks, intrigued by the mention of Sherlock’s past as well as the tube in his hands.

 

“You’ll see,” Sherlock repeats, a smile twisting his lips again. “Come on, let’s go.”

 

He takes John’s free hand and starts to run, and John is startled enough that he laughs, running fast to keep up with Sherlock’s long strides. They speed through the forest, branches and leaves crunching underfoot, moving so fast that the chill can’t seem to stick to John’s senses long enough to bother him.

 

By the time they’re back to the meadow, John is sweaty and out of breath, and his hand slides out of Sherlock’s easily. He puts his hands on his knees and breathes heavily for a minute, looking up at Sherlock. Sherlock grins and then they’re both laughing again, despite their shortness of breath.

 

“How do we get home?” John asks, once he has recovered enough to speak.

 

“The same way we came,” Sherlock says, already heading towards the water. He stops at the edge, looking behind him impatiently at John.

 

When John is beside him, he holds out his hand. “Take my hand,” he says. “And hold onto the tube as tightly as you can.”

 

“Okay,” John says, reaching out and taking Sherlock’s hand in his. Sherlock squeezes it for a moment and John squeezes back. Sherlock steps onto a large, flat rock next to the pond, and tugs John’s hand until John joins him.

 

“On three, we jump in,” Sherlock says. When John nods, he counts. “One, two, three!”

 

And then they jump, and as soon as he feels his feet hit the water, he’s gone.

 

\--

 

When John is aware of himself again, he’s on the roof of Baker Street, sitting next to the urn. Sherlock is beside him, gripping his hand tightly, and in John’s other hand is the tube.

 

John blinks, taking in his surroundings in confusion. He looks up at the sky, and the moon is almost directly overhead. “What – it’s like we never left,” he says in awe.

 

Sherlock smiles at him. “Except you have that,” he says, gesturing towards the tube. He takes his hand away from John’s, and John feels surprisingly bereft.

 

“Right,” John says, looking down at the tube. “And my shoulder’s better. Thanks.”

 

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock says. “We had to collect your payment.”

 

John smiles and stands, and Sherlock follows. Sherlock picks up the urn, and John, with no shoulder injury to hold him back, picks up the empty bottle the water had once been in.

 

“It’s like no time has passed,” John says as they go down the stairs towards John’s bedroom window.

 

“It hasn’t, really,” Sherlock says.

 

“But we were there for quite a while,” John says in confusion.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees.

 

“But how-”

 

“Time passes differently there,” Sherlock interrupts, setting the urn down and pulling John’s window open the rest of the way.

 

“Of course it does,” John mutters as Sherlock gracefully goes through the window.

 

“What was that?” Sherlock asks, popping his head out as he holds his arms out for the urn.

 

John grins. “Nothing,” he says, ignoring Sherlock’s skeptical look and passing him the urn, then the bottle. He climbs back through the window, and Sherlock doesn’t reach out to help him this time, but he does hover nearby impatiently, and then he ushers John down to the living room.

 

“Finished already?” Billy asks from his spot on the table.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, sitting on the couch and turning Billy to face him.

 

“It was brilliant,” John tells Billy, sitting beside Sherlock and leaning forward. “I still don’t think I understand what just happened.”

 

“Honestly, John, it wasn’t _that_ exciting,” Sherlock says, though his protest seems only half-hearted.

 

“It was, though,” John insists, looking at him, then looking back at Billy.   “My shoulder’s better, for one,” he says, rotating his shoulder with ease as proof. “And we got this from Mycroft,” he adds, holding up the tube and grinning.

 

“Is that a pipe fox?” Billy asks. He sounds excited, and his head rocks on his jaw a bit after he speaks.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. He’s doing his best to keep his expression aloof, but John can see the way his eyes keep going back to the tube, and the way his hands are curled in his lap, and John knows he’s excited for this. Still, though, John’s not sure what they’re talking about.

 

“Pipe fox?” John asks.

 

“Must you repeat everything, John?”

 

“Oh, shut up,” John says, but it’s without heat as he examines the tube in his hands, looking at it from different angles and holding it under the light. “Should I open it?”

 

“Please,” Sherlock says.

 

“Do you want to do it?” John asks, holding the tube out.

 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I can’t. It’s yours.”

 

“Right,” John says. He looks down at the tube and wonders just what he’s getting himself into, and then twists it open, the metal sliding apart with a surprising amount of ease.

 

He’s half expecting something elaborate like a puff of smoke or a loud bang or even a rush of glitter or confetti, but what he gets instead is a small squeak, almost like the sound of a mouse. He frowns and peers into the longer end of the tube, and then jumps back when he sees small eyes looking back at him.

 

“What-”

“Let him out,” Sherlock says from beside him. He sounds eager, and John looks at his face and takes in his wide eyes and clenched hands and then turns back to the tube. Carefully, not knowing exactly what’s going to slide out of it, he cups his hand, then upends the tube into it.

 

A furry, snakelike creature tumbles out, with a tiny face like a fox on one end. It has small pointed ears and a little pointed nose, and it curls into John’s hand and cranes its neck to look up at him, then surges forward, slithering up his arm and making John twitch until it gets to his shirt collar, where it winds its tail inside for leverage and then cranes its head to look John in the eye.

 

“Er, hello,” John says to it, staring at in confusion.

 

It doesn’t reply, and John’s honestly not quite sure whether he’d been expecting it to or not, but it surges forward and presses what feels like a small kiss onto John’s cheek.

 

“He likes you,” Sherlock says. His voice is softer than usual, and he’s staring at the creature with rapt attention.

 

“Er,” John repeats. He’s not feeling very eloquent, and he’s not sure he is quite grasping this situation. “And…what is he, exactly?”

 

“A pipe fox,” Sherlock repeats.

 

“Right, and what is a pipe fox?” John asks, watching the little creature as best he can as it twists and presses its nose into John’s hair, sniffing and twitching and winding its way around John’s head and John does his best to keep still, though he can’t help the occasional flinch or twitch. The sensation is strange; it’s like a weighted feather tickling his skin.

 

“It’s a fox spirit,” Sherlock says. “It has two forms; this one, and a much bigger one. The second form requires a lot of energy, so it’s best used for emergencies only.”

 

“Emergencies?” John asks.

 

Sherlock shrugs. “Life or death situations, that sort of thing.”

 

The pipe fox winds its tail into John’s shirt collar again and cranes its neck so that its entire body is almost standing up and looks at him. John blinks – the creature really is quite cute, he has to admit, and he can’t imagine how it would be useful in a life or death situation.

 

“Don’t judge him by the form he keeps now,” Sherlock advises, as if he can read John’s thoughts, his eyes trained on the pipe fox.

 

John reaches up and holds out his hand, and the little pipe fox curls over his fingers. John holds it out to Sherlock.

 

“Would you like to see him?” John asks.

 

Sherlock blinks, staring at the pipe fox. He reaches out with a carefully guarded expression, holding his hand out towards John. The pipe fox bridges the gap and winds its way quickly and excitedly up Sherlock’s arm, squeaking over and over again as it goes, and Sherlock is smiling in a way John has never seen. Sherlock reaches up and takes the pipe fox in his hands, then holds it in front of him. Its tail curls reflexively around Sherlock’s wrist, and it cranes its neck towards Sherlock’s face, so Sherlock brings it closer and closes his eyes in laughter when the pipe fox presses little kisses on the tip of Sherlock’s nose.

 

“Hello, Redbeard,” Sherlock says, opening his eyes and looking at him. The pipe fox squeaks and wriggles in Sherlock’s hands, then presses another kiss to Sherlock’s nose, making Sherlock laugh again. John’s watching in awe, feeling something twist in his chest as Sherlock holds the little thing in gentle hands.

 

“You’ll take care of John, won’t you?” Sherlock murmurs.

 

The pipe fox, Redbeard, squeaks again, and its tail twitches back and forth against Sherlock’s wrist.

 

“You always were a good boy,” Sherlock says fondly, reaching up and carefully patting the top of Redbeard’s head with one fingertip, which is about the same size as the head it’s patting.

 

Redbeard squeaks again, and John smiles. “He remembers you,” John says. “He loves you.”

 

“I didn’t think I’d ever see him again,” Sherlock says, not taking his eyes away from the little pipe fox. “I’m surprised Mycroft used him as payment; I would’ve thought he’d want to keep him from me for the rest of my life just to be spiteful.”

 

“I’m glad he gave him back,” John says. “Was he just living in that pipe in the meantime?” he asks, frowning at the thought.

 

“In a way,” Sherlock replies. “The time when he’s in the pipe is much different than the time out of it. It’s very similar to the difference in the passing of time between when we’re here and when we’re on the spirits’ mountain, like earlier.”

 

“That was a mountain?” John asks in surprise.

 

“That’s the only thing you’re going to comment on?” Sherlock asks, looking away from Redbeard for a moment to peer at John, one eyebrow raised.

 

John shrugs and finds himself laughing. “To be honest, I'm pretty sure at least 90% of today was a dream,” he says. “None of this makes any sense.”

 

Sherlock smiles, but it’s different than his smile from before; softer somehow, absent in the crinkles of his eyes. “Wouldn’t that be interesting,” he murmurs, and Redbeard squeaks in agreement.

 

Sherlock takes Redbeard in his hand and holds him out to John. “Here,” he says.

 

“Are you sure? I understand if you-”

 

“Take him,” Sherlock says, thrusting his hand out closer to John. “He’s yours. If I want to see him, I know where to find him. It’s your turn to have him.”

 

John holds his hand out and Redbeard curls around his wrist, and John looks at Sherlock in confusion. “Are you really sure?”

 

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock says.

 

“Right,” John says. “You’re sure.” He holds his wrist up to look at the pipe fox, and Redbeard lifts his head to look up at John. Redbeard squeaks, then settles back down on John’s wrist, pressing another little peck of a kiss into the pale skin on the underside of John’s wrist.

 

“He’s quite happy,” Sherlock says, standing up and going to the kitchen.

 

John smiles at the little pipe fox curled around his wrist. A month ago, he’d been alone, scared every time he left his house, with nothing and no one to live for. Now he has this strange group of ragtag friends that’s beginning to feel like a family; Mrs. Hudson, Billy, and now Redbeard. And on top of that, he has _Sherlock_ , whose presence in his life has become so integral that it terrifies him. But somehow, he finally feels _alive_.

 

“So am I,” John says after a moment, though Sherlock is too far away to hear him. “So am I.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this part, Sherlock and John have another interesting errand to run. Meanwhile, some more questions arise about Mary. Just who is she?

“I don’t understand why you have to come with me to meet Mary,” John tells Sherlock. His arms are folded across his chest, and his jaw is clenched. Redbeard is curled around his neck and pressing a kiss to the soft skin there, but John ignores him and his tickly presence to focus on Sherlock, who is his usual picture of nonchalance.

 

“She said I was invited, didn’t she? It’s not like I invited myself,” Sherlock says reasonably as he picks nonexistent lint off of the arm of his suit jacket.

 

“That makes it so much better,” John complains.

 

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, John,” Sherlock says.

 

John’s annoyed and he stares at Sherlock for a moment, retorts popping to the forefront of his mind, but he knows a lost battle when he sees one, and so he swallows them down. Instead, he turns to check his collar in the mirror above the fireplace, and sure enough, he can see Redbeard’s soft head peeking out over the checked fabric of his shirt. He puts his hand up and wiggles his fingers towards the little pipefox, who obediently leaves his neck to curl around them, and John fixes his collar properly with one hand.

 

“Why don’t you stay here with Billy, then?” John asks Redbeard, holding his hand out and urging Redbeard towards the skull.

 

Redbeard, though, doesn’t want to leave John’s hand. He squeaks and burrows into John’s sleeve, causing John to wrinkle his nose in discomfort and holds stock still as the little pipefox crawls up his bare arm; it’s a strange sensation, knowing the creature is inside his clothes, and the hair on the back of his neck stands up as Redbeard slithers along his bare skin, pressed close because of the constriction of his sleeve.

 

“Am I that bad he needs to crawl up John’s sleeve to avoid me?” Billy asks. He sounds offended.

 

Sherlock stands next to John with a small half smile on his face. “It’s nothing to do with you, Billy,” he says. “I think he just wants to stay with John,” he adds, watching as Redbeard’s head pops out of John’s collar from the inside, much to John’s chagrin. Redbeard squeaks in agreement, and Sherlock reaches out and rubs the top of his little head, resulting in more squeaks from Redbeard and a shiver from John when Redbeard’s tail rubs back and forth across the base of his neck.

 

“Ticklish?” Sherlock asks, raising his eyes to John’s in amusement, his fingers just shy of the sensitive skin of John’s neck.

 

“A bit, yeah,” John says, eyes on Sherlock’s but attention on his neck. “Especially when there’s a furry snake inside my shirt.”

 

“He’s hardly a snake,” Sherlock says, his fingers abruptly disappearing from the general vicinity of John’s neck. He heads towards the door, grabbing his coat on the way, as the weather is getting cooler and cooler outside. “You might as well bring him,” Sherlock adds, gesturing towards Redbeard as he shrugs into his coat. “He’ll stay in your collar; Mary probably won’t even notice him.”

 

“Yeah, alright,” John says, resigned, and Redbeard cranes up to peck his cheek with an appreciative kiss. “I’m quite used to him by now, anyway.”

 

And it’s true; since he’d gotten him the week before, Redbeard has scarcely left John’s collar or wrist. At first, it was strange and a bit annoying, but John’s growing accustomed to it now (though he’s hesitant to admit it).

 

So, John grabs his jacket and tugs it on, the little pipe fox curled around his neck all the while, and bounds down the stairs after Sherlock as he calls out a quick goodbye to Billy.

 

\--

 

The coffee shop is not John’s usual type of place. It’s a very small, independent café with a décor that’s surpassed homey to enter the world of hipster. John feels a bit old and out of place, but Mary seems to like it. She fits in well here, with her quirky, bohemian style. In fact, the pattern on her scarf matches the shop’s wallpaper quite well, but John refrains from telling her so; he doesn’t think it would go over well.

 

“So, have you had many clients lately?” Mary asks Sherlock after a lull in conversation. She turns to face him with a warm smile, her hands cupped around her mug of chai tea.

 

“We had two last week,” Sherlock says shortly.

 

Mary shares an amused glance with John. “And what were they like?” she prods.

 

Sherlock sighs. “A woman with an internet addiction and a chronic cheater. Boring. Although we did have a nice train ride out to Kent to visit the internet addict.”

 

John thinks of the train ride and grimaces; Sherlock had loudly and unapologetically deduced nearly all of the passengers around them, much to John’s embarrassment and the passengers’ collective dismay.

 

He sighs, knowing he’s about to do something dangerous, but his bladder is beginning to feel the presence of all the tea he’d drank that day. He hesitates, glancing between Sherlock and Mary for a moment, but he has no choice. “I’ll just go to the loo,” John says, giving Mary an apologetic look. “Play nice, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and Mary laughs, watching as John goes. As soon as he’s out of sight, though, she turns to Sherlock and the warmth on her face snaps into cold concentration. Her mouth settles into a firm line, and her eyes are narrowed and focused.

 

Sherlock sits up straighter in his seat and arches one eyebrow. “The many faces of Miss Morstan, hmm?” he says.

 

She ignores him and leans forward, setting her tea down on the table. “Every time I go somewhere with John, if I don’t invite you, you show up,” she tells him.

 

“I think that works out well for both us, don’t you?” Sherlock asks.

 

“That’s not the point,” Mary says, her expression unwavering.

 

“No? Hmm,” Sherlock says. “Either way, you went to the trouble of inviting me here today, knowing full well I’d show up regardless. So what _is_ the point? Clearly you have something you wish to discuss.”

 

“I do,” she says. “I thought I might as well invite you and save you the trouble of planning subterfuge.”

 

“How charitable,” Sherlock remarks.

 

“It seems like you want to chaperone John and I every time we see each other, and I understand that, I really do. I even appreciate it, even if I wish it weren’t necessary.”

 

“I’d imagine so,” Sherlock says. “You appear to have a conscience, so it can’t be easy, being who you are. Although, I’d advise you not to waste time on wishes that can’t be granted.”

 

Mary ignores this and continues speaking, leaning forward a bit. “You want to be there whenever there’s a chance John and I will be alone together outside of work, and yet you told John he can’t invite me to your flat. Why is that? Wouldn’t it be easier for me to just visit you, since the two of you live in the same place? Why can’t I come to your flat?”

 

“You’ve noticed,” Sherlock says, looking at her more attentively than before. He leans back and takes a sip of his coffee, then sets the cup down. “My flat is a shop for granting wishes. The shop is neither here nor there; it exists, and yet it doesn’t. To put it plainly, only those that have a need for it can enter.”

 

“You think I don’t have a wish?” Mary asks, and her voice is desperate, her knuckles white around her cup, and a strange laugh comes from her mouth, one that speaks of no good humor, but instead despair.

 

“I know you have a wish,” Sherlock assures her. He almost sounds gentle, but his voice quickly turns pointed before the sentiment can settle. “But your wish pertains to your very essence of being, and you and I know very well that no one in this world or any other can grant it, not even _me_ , the wish granter of all the worlds. For that reason, you can’t see my shop, and of course, can’t enter it. You have no need for it because at present, every single one of your wishes goes back to the core of your being, which is unchangeable, as you know.”

 

Mary is quiet for a moment, eyes trained on her tea, and then she looks up at him shrewdly. “But John has a need for your shop?” she asks, eyes searching his.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “If anyone has a need for the shop, it’s John. He belongs there. It’s preparing him for what lies ahead.”

 

“What lies ahead?” Mary asks.

 

Sherlock smiles a crooked smile, his eyes giving away none of his inner thoughts. “There are no coincidences in this world, Mary, only the inevitable. John must prepare for that.”

 

Mary blinks, looking down at her tea for a moment. She hesitates, and then looks back up, searching Sherlock’s eyes. “There’s really nothing you can-”

“You two are quite serious,” a voice interrupts.

 

Mary jumps and looks up at John in surprise, guilt on her face, but Sherlock doesn’t move, just remains staring passively at Mary as John sits down, taking his seat and looking back and forth between the two of them.

 

“Everything alright?” John continues, his shoulders stiff and his brow furrowed as he takes his seat.

 

“Of course,” Mary says, smiling. She tucks a strand of her short, blond hair behind her ear, and Sherlock watches and then turns to John with a blank expression.

 

“We were just chatting,” Sherlock says.

 

“You never _chat_ ,” John says, narrowing his eyes.

 

Sherlock gives him a half smile. “So you do notice what goes on around you,” he says.

 

John spares him an un-amused _look_ , and then turns to Mary, his eyes flickering over her in an inconclusive attempt at assessment. “Alright, Mary?” he asks, brow furrowed.

 

“Of course,” Mary says with a reassuring smile. “I didn’t know you were such a worrier, John.”

 

John huffs, unsure, looking back and forth between the two of them once more, but gives it up as a lost cause.

 

\--

 

John comes home from the clinic the next day with a bag of Chinese takeout in hand; he knows it’s Sherlock’s favorite, and he hasn’t seen Sherlock eat a proper meal in a few days, so he’s hoping it will entice him.

 

When he enters the flat, though, Sherlock’s mood doesn’t seem conducive to eating. He’s lying on his back in his dressing gown, smoking his long, unusual pipe. He turns his head and looks at John when he comes in, and John feels distinctly uncomfortable and can’t help but stop and stand awkwardly under Sherlock’s gaze; Sherlock is looking at John in a calculated way and obviously seeing thousands of little facets of his character, life, and day that the average person would miss.

 

“Hmm,” Sherlock says after a moment, and John just huffs and shakes his head, wondering why he stopped to indulge Sherlock’s stare in the first place. He goes to the kitchen and sets the bag down on the table, wondering idly what exactly Sherlock saw in his perusal.

 

“I brought Chinese,” John calls. “You’re eating it.” He peeks into the living room and sees Sherlock wave a lazy hand through the air in what John assumes is acquiescence, not moving from the couch.

 

John quirks a small smile and takes some plates and utensils out, carrying them into the living room with the bag of Chinese.

 

“Budge up,” he says, and Sherlock obediently bends his knees so John can sit on the couch. John sets the bag and cutlery down on the table next to what looks like a large paper lantern, though the material is too thick and smooth to be paper. “What’s this, then?” John asks, pointing to it.

 

Sherlock takes another long drag of his pipe, then watches John as he lazily blows out the smoke. John does his best not to be impatient, and Sherlock smiles when all the smoke has left his mouth, and it’s like a switch has been turned on because he suddenly sits up, eyes bright and smile widening.

 

“You noticed,” he says.

 

“Well, yeah,” John replies. “It _is_ sitting on our coffee table. I’d have to be blind not to.”

 

“ _That_ , John, is our invitation,” Sherlock says, setting his pipe down on the side table. Surprisingly, he reaches out and takes a plate for himself, dishing some fried rice onto it.

 

“Invitation?” John asks. “What does that mean? Can you give me a proper answer, for once?”

 

Sherlock gives him a confused look. “It _is_ a proper answer, John. It’s an invitation; we can’t go without it.”

 

“Go _where_?” John asks, holding his own plate out when Sherlock holds up a second scoop of fried rice with an inquisitive head tilt.

 

“You’ll see,” Sherlock says.

 

John sighs. He’s a bit tired, to be honest, but he supposes that wherever they go, it’ll probably be exciting, so he fills up his plate and digs in. “And when are we going?” John asks.

 

Sherlock looks at the clock, frowns, and tilts his head. “Twenty minutes,” he says.

 

John sputters, almost choking on his mouthful of kung po chicken. “What?”

 

Sherlock turns to him and grins. “Better eat quickly,” he advises.

 

\--

 

Exactly nineteen minutes later finds John and a now suit-clad Sherlock standing in the living room, dinner having been hastily cleared away by John as Sherlock changed into proper clothes. Redbeard is watching them from beside Billy; Sherlock has said Redbeard can’t come, and Redbeard seems sulky, if the way his tail lethargically swishes back and forth is anything to go by, but Billy is occasionally murmuring to him, and Redbeard’s head is pressed against Billy’s jaw. John feels surprisingly lonely without the little creature wrapped around him.

 

“When I say so, you have to grab onto the handle,” Sherlock tells John, pointing towards the lantern-like object on the table. “You absolutely _must_ _not,_ under any circumstances, let go, do you understand?”

 

John nods, turning his attention to the lantern. It’s large, about the size of a basketball, and it’s red. Upon closer inspection, it appears to be made of something similar to fruit-skin; it’s red and fleshy, and in some places, a little green or yellow. It’s a bit like an apple, only much larger, and hollow inside. There’s an opening on top, barely big enough to get a few fingers through, and on top of that is a vaguely circular handle, made of twig.

 

Sherlock picks it up by the handle with his left hand and holds it out to John, who takes the other side of the handle with his right, and as soon as his hand is all the way around the handle, he’s no longer on Baker Street.

 

Instead, he’s standing on a dirt path with Sherlock, in a place he’s never been before, surrounded by a large forest. John blinks in surprise and confusion. “What – how did we – where _are_ we?”

 

“You’ll see,” Sherlock says. “It’s better experienced than explained.”

 

John bites back his sarcastic response when he sees the smile on Sherlock’s face. “Right,” he says instead, more to himself than Sherlock, nodding a bit and clenching and unclenching his hand as he tries to reconcile the location of his body with the fact that he hasn’t intentionally gone anywhere. He looks around and sees that they’re at the bottom of a large hill, and his eyes widen when he sees at least fifty spirits ahead of them, walking up the hill, all holding lanterns similar to the one John and Sherlock are holding.

 

“What the fuck, Sherlock?” John asks, his mood abruptly darkening. He’s seen spirits like these before; some are large masses of smoke with one eye and no mouth, some are colorful blob-like creatures with no eyes and a large mouth, some are flying, some are walking. He feels his heart start to beat faster and his palms begin to sweat. He’s never seen so many spirits in one place, and while they are walking away from them and up the hill rather than running towards John as they’re usually wont to do, it’s not exactly comforting.

 

“Come on, John, we’ve got to keep up. Remember, don’t let go of the handle,” Sherlock says, ignoring John’s statement, and tugging him along. John follows because he’s sure it would be much worse to be left alone than to go along with Sherlock, but his anger increases as they rush up the hill, quickly approaching the top. He’s silent until they’re almost there, and though he’s breathing a bit heavily, he can’t hold back any longer.

 

“I thought you were helping me get rid of these,” John hisses, voice low and angry. He’s afraid to speak too loud, lest they’re overheard. “All of this, this _life_ with you, every fucking day, has been so I’ll stop seeing them, and then you bring me -”

 

Suddenly, he stops, though, because his anger is quickly overrun by awe. They have reached the top of the hill, and when John looks down, he can barely process what he sees. His breath leaves him in a surprised whoosh. Ahead of them, for as far as his eye can see, are hundreds, if not _thousands_ , of spirits. They’re in every size, shape, color, and form imaginable; some look vaguely human, some look a bit like animals, some are oddly enough geometric shapes. Some of them are quite corporeal, but others are wispy like smoke, and yet all of them are carrying a glowing lantern identical to Sherlock’s and John’s. He looks down at theirs, and sure enough, it’s glowing just the same as all the others, the light a warm orangey-red in the darkness.

 

From where they stand, John can see that the path continues ahead of them down the hill, and then it winds through a forest until it comes to a large circular clearing with a big tree in the center that appears to be glowing the same color as their lantern, though he can’t make out its details from so far away, and every inch of the path is filled with spirits.

 

“Sherlock,” John says, his voice low. “Why are we – where the _fuck_ –”

 

“John,” Sherlock interrupts. “Do you feel cold?”

 

“What? No, I’m not bloody _cold_ ,” he says, voice starting to rise.

 

“Do you notice any particularly bad smells?” Sherlock continues, unperturbed by John’s anger.

 

“No,” John says. “Now will you just _tell_ me-”

 

“John, stop and _think._ Do you notice any other indicators that you are in the presence of something that means to harm you?” Sherlock asks, his words a fast, pointed rush.

 

John freezes and realizes that he’d failed to notice what Sherlock obviously had not: he’s not had a single indicator that any of these spirits are evil. His palms are sweating, and his heart rate is fast, but that’s a normal sign of nerves, not necessarily of a mal-intentioned spirit.

 

“Oh,” he says after a moment.

 

“Oh, indeed,” Sherlock says, raising one eyebrow, then looking out over the path as a bit of embarrassment flushes over John.

 

A spirit flies overhead. It looks a bit like a pterodactyl, John thinks, and if the creature itself weren’t surreal enough, just having the thought is absurd.

 

“You two better hurry up if you don’t want to be left behind,” it tells them, glancing down at them and then flying quickly to catch up with the pack.

 

John’s jaw drops when it speaks, and he looks at Sherlock, who turns to him with a small smile. “Let’s go,” Sherlock says. “Don’t let go of the handle,” he adds, and John nods, increasing the strength of his grip and running alongside Sherlock, the lantern swinging awkwardly between them.

 

By the time they catch up to the group, they’ve already reached the bottom of the hill they’d just been standing atop, and they slow to the sedate pace of the spirits in line. The night is dark, but the ethereal light of the lanterns is warm and inviting. John glances at Sherlock with a smile, taking in the way the warm light reflects on his features. Sherlock’s pinky is pressed against his, and it’s soothing, feeling Sherlock so nearby in such a strange place.

 

He’d been scared and more than a bit angry with Sherlock when they first arrived, but that has rapidly diminished and been replaced by appreciation for this strange place. Something in his chest clenches, something that makes him realize how very different his life has become, and he can’t help but _cherish_ this moment, this unreal moment in which he walks in solidarity amongst the very creatures he’s working so hard to stop seeing.

 

The spirits are different somehow as he walks amongst them than they are when he runs from them. They almost seem beautiful here in the strange intimacy of the lantern light. They’re talking to one another, and they all seem excited, pleased, even _happy_ , and John’s never seen them this way.

 

“I heard it’s extra delicious this year,” one of them says. It’s an absurdly large head resting on two stumpy legs walking just ahead of them.

 

“Me too,” another says from beside it. It’s a very pale one-eyed human-like shape, wrapped in a thick red cloak. “I can taste it already!”

 

John turns to Sherlock. “What are they talking about?” he asks, his voice soft.

 

Sherlock’s answering small smile is so warm, his face sculpted in the flickering shadows of the lantern’s light, that John swallows against the emotion rising unexpectedly in his chest, suddenly very aware of their hands on the handle of the lantern. “You’ll see,” Sherlock says, his voice rich and dark, but hushed.

 

John shifts his hand a bit on the handle, their pinkies brushing once more, and Sherlock presses his closer to John’s. John smiles as he looks ahead, feeling his cheeks flush, his nervous system come alive. He has no idea where they are or how they got here, no idea what these creatures are that he’s following, no idea what lies ahead of them, but somehow, walking beside Sherlock with the lantern in their grasp, it seems _right_.

 

They walk for a while in silence, save for the murmurs of conversation they overhear from the spirits, until they’re finally close enough that John can make out the tree in the clearing. It’s still quite far ahead, but he can see it in better detail now. It’s huge, and it’s adorned with fruits that appear to be the same as the lantern John and Sherlock are holding, only they’re still attached to the tree, glowing all the same.

 

“It’s beautiful,” John says, eyes wide. “Is this lantern from that tree? It looks the same.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “It’s a hollowed out fruit from last year’s harvest. This tree only comes into full bloom once a year, and when it happens, the fruits produce a nectar you can only get from this particular ceremony. It’s very lucky to be invited.”

 

“What kind of fruit is it?”

 

“You’ve tasted it before,” Sherlock tells him. “Remember, that night we had wine on the roof when you first moved in? That was actually the nectar from last year’s ceremony.”

 

John remembers the sweet but complex taste of the wine very well, just as he remembers sitting on the roof while Sherlock smoked his ridiculous pipe and John was only just beginning to get to know him. It seems like lifetimes ago now, and John smiles, a bit lost in the memory.

 

He’s thinking about it now, a smile playing on his lips, and so he doesn’t even notice when a tiny spirit, no bigger than a hamster, runs up from behind and weaves in between his feet. He stumbles, hears Sherlock say his name, but it’s too late – he trips, his hand leaving the lantern for just a moment. Hurriedly, he reaches for it again and stands, but it’s too late.

 

The spirits around them have stopped and turned to stare at them, suddenly seeing them for what they are due to John having taken his hand off the lantern, even if it had only been for a second.

 

“A _human_?” they’re saying, and the big teeth and eyes are beginning to look scary again. John’s heart pounds, and he looks to Sherlock for help, but Sherlock is standing still, staring at the spirits. He seems a bit shocked.

 

John hears fragments of the spirits’ voices like he’s in a nightmare. _But he’s with Sherlock – but who is he – a human, here! – how did he get one – should we eat him?_

The last one is suddenly being repeated with startling frequency, and John feels his eyes widen. His heart is pounding in his chest now, and adrenaline is rising in spikes.

 

“John,” Sherlock says urgently. “We have to run.”

 

John doesn’t need to be told twice. Sherlock starts to run, shifting his hand and twining their fingers together on the lantern handle as they go. He runs into the forest and they go parallel to the monster procession, until it’s too dark and dense to see. John’s heart is pounding as he follows Sherlock, twigs crunching under their feet and branches brushing their faces, the sounds of the spirits’ angry voices from outside the forest loud and daunting. He hopes Sherlock can get them out, even in this darkness, but Sherlock suddenly stops short in the middle of the trees. It happens so quickly that John stumbles into him, and then Sherlock tugs on his hand just as he gets his bearings and leads him to the right.

 

“Are you crazy?” John says when he realizes that Sherlock is leading them out of the forest, back to the procession of spirits.

 

“The element of surprise,” Sherlock calls over his shoulder, just as they break out of the trees.

 

They _do_ gain the element of surprise and get a small lead as they run towards the tree in the clearing, but John’s not sure what will happen once they get there, and he’s terrified. The spirits are getting closer behind them, and some are even flying over their heads, all saying that humans shouldn’t be here, that they should die, that they’d make a nice feast.

 

But before they’ve even made it a quarter of the way towards the tree, they’re surrounded, and John’s breath is coming in fast gaps. There are spirits flying overhead and spirits on all sides. John presses closer to Sherlock until they’re back-to-back, surround by a circle of spirits. Sherlock’s back is strong against his, and their clasped hands are caught between their bodies. His shoulder’s at an awkward angle, and he knows Sherlock’s must be, too, but he won’t let go, not now.

 

The spirits are getting closer and he squeezes his eyes shut; these are enemies for which he has no weapon, and he can’t think of anything to do to help either Sherlock or himself. He can feel sweat trickling down his neck and his breath is shaky and high and fast and he wonders why Sherlock isn’t _doing_ anything, because surely Sherlock knows a way to fight the spirits, one of which is so close to John that he can feel its breath, oddly hot, wafting over his face. He presses closer to Sherlock, squirming away from the nauseating sensation of the spirit’s breath, sure that this is the end – but suddenly, the voices of the spirits stop and the spirit in front of him pauses and then retreats at the sound of a small scream.

 

John opens his eyes hesitantly and holds still, watching with a still-pounding heart as the spirits shift away from them to make way for something to get through the crowd.   It’s walking towards them, and whatever it is, it has made the spirits calm down. Sherlock shifts until he’s next to John, standing very, very close, their hands still clasped, for which John is grateful because he still feels in no way safe.

 

Something akin to relief rushes through him when he sees that the creature making its way through the crowd is none other than the little fox-boy from Angelo’s, marching determinedly through the crowd of spirits.

 

“You can’t eat him! He’s a good person!” the fox-boy shouts, standing in front of John and somehow commanding the entire group of spirits despite his small size and young age.

 

Hope floods through John and he squeezes Sherlock’s hand, his heart pounding in his chest.   He remembers this boy as being shy, but now, he is somehow a strong, fierce, and commanding presence that John desperately hopes is enough to sway the spirits.

 

The spirits are murmuring questions and objections – _but he’s a human! He shouldn’t be here! –_ but the fox ignores them and takes a deep breath and then shouts, “He says my father’s pasta is delicious!”

 

John feels disbelief swirl through his head; surely that’s irrelevant? But the monsters are suddenly hushed, murmuring amongst themselves.   _He can see the shop? Is he the one we’ve heard about? How has he eaten Angelo’s pasta?_

 

Some of them don’t seem convinced, though, and John’s body feels cold, and he’s sweating, gripping Sherlock’s hand with all his strength. The little fox steps closer to them, then suddenly stands taller, takes a deep breath, and shouts, “HE GAVE ME THIS!”  

 

He holds the broken end of an arrow Sherlock had given John over his head, and John stares in shock, then turns to look at Sherlock, who gives him a small half-smile that makes John’s eyes widen. The monsters are murmuring again – _That’s an evil crushing arrow! It could protect all of us, look how strong it is! How could a human be in possession of that? Is he really human? Maybe we should let him live?_ John feels as if he might pass out or throw up as the rush of questions float over his ears.

 

“They should get the nectar!” the fox shouts. “They were given a lantern, after all, weren’t they?”

 

The spirits fall quiet, apparently having come to the same conclusion, and they begin to move, clearing a path for John and Sherlock to take.

 

“You should go now,” the fox tells John and Sherlock. “Fill your lantern.”

 

John is staring at the little fox, his heart pounding, and he feels immeasurable gratitude and love swirl in his chest. He leans down on shaky legs, his fingers still tangled with Sherlock’s around the handle of the lantern, and reaches out with his free hand to clasp the little fox’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he says, his voice thicker than he’d expected. “Thank you so, so much.”

 

The fox blushes, and a little smile creeps over his face. He looks just as John had remembered him: shy and unassuming. It’s difficult to reconcile with the strong presence he just was, in command of hundreds of spirits. “You-you’re welcome,” he stutters out. “Please come over for dinner again,” he adds, his words a fast, nervous rush.

 

“I’d love to,” John says whole-heartedly, his eyes locked with the little fox’s. The little fox’s face flushes once more, and to John’s surprise, he rushes forward and gives John a hug, which John barely returns with one arm before the fox-boy pulls away, looking shy again, his tail twitching.

 

“You should go to the tree now,” he says.

 

“Right,” John says, straightening. He glances at Sherlock, who’s looking at him with that small smile again, and his heart seems to float in his chest, his adrenaline leaving him but the magical ambience of this place replacing it with a sublime, floating, ethereal warmth that makes him feel unsteady and overwhelmed but nonetheless relieved. He looks down at the little fox-boy. “Thanks again,” he says. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

 

The fox-boy nods eagerly, his tail twitching, and John nods at Sherlock. Together, they turn and walk towards the tree. The monsters are watching them go, but they fade out of John’s focus, turning into a background blur of colors and shapes. The only thing he can focus on is the tree ahead of them, Sherlock’s fingers woven into his, the rough feel of the handle beneath their hands.

 

The night is cool and enchanting around them, and Sherlock’s skin is smooth and warm against his. John glances at Sherlock for a moment, and Sherlock turns and smiles at him, his eyes soft and pleased. John returns the smile and looks back at the tree, glowing warmly in the night air. His heart beats loudly in his chest, a strange energy thrumming through his veins. The whole night is a blur, and the Chinese food he’d eaten with Sherlock in their flat seems like years ago. The only thing grounding him in this surreal experience is the very physical presence of Sherlock by his side, but somehow, even as it grounds him, it makes him feel like he’s floating away.

 

They walk in silence, and John steps closer to Sherlock, so close that their arms are pressed together. When they arrive at the tree, John’s overwhelmed by how beautiful it is, and he tilts his head back to try and look up at it, but he can’t see all the way to the top. The fruits, surrounded by vivid red flowers and lush green leaves, glow with the same magical light of the lantern he holds with Sherlock. John swallows, overcome by the sight, suddenly aware of how lucky he is that he’s able to witness such a thing. His heart is beating faster again, but this time, it’s not out of fear.

 

“Ready, John?” Sherlock asks, and John turns to look at him, sure his face is showing much more than he wants it to, but Sherlock just smiles at him again, surprisingly patient. Sherlock squeezes his hand, lets his thumb brush over John’s skin, and John can do nothing but stare. Sherlock squeezes his hand once more and then untangles their fingers, but his hand doesn’t leave the handle. He adjusts his grip instead, his hand next to John’s again rather than wrapped around it, and John’s surprised to miss the feeling of Sherlock’s fingers intertwined with his own.

 

“We have to hold the lantern up to the fruit,” Sherlock says, his voice hushed, as if he doesn’t want to speak too loudly in front of such a powerful presence as the tree before them, which he looks at with a reverence John’s unaccustomed to seeing on his face.

 

John merely nods because he’s unsure he’s able to speak. Together, they lift the lantern until the hole on top is beneath a large, shining fruit that hangs from the tree right above their heads, heavy with nectar. Once the lantern and fruit come in contact, nectar starts to flow out of the fruit. It’s shimmery and gold, flowing thick like honey.

 

John watches in awe as it fills the lantern. Surprisingly, the weight of the lantern doesn’t seem to change even though it’s steadily filling with liquid. John glances at Sherlock, who’s staring at the lantern, the light dancing over his sharp features. Sherlock turns his head to catch John’s eye for a moment and grins, and John can’t help it; he feels a small laugh bubble up inside of him as the night catches up to him, and then they’re both giggling, heads leaning in towards each other, their pinkies overlapping on the handle of their rapidly filling fruit, watching as the nectar flows.

 

When the lantern is full, they’re both still giggling. “We shouldn’t be laughing here,” John whispers, their heads still close together, but that only makes Sherlock laugh more, and John can’t stop, _really_ he can’t, even as they take a step back from the tree and turn around to face the spirits again.

 

The spirits are watching them and John’s not sure what to do, and Sherlock’s not giving him any cues. He gets control of himself enough to clear his throat and say, “Er, thank you very –” before suddenly Sherlock takes a large step forward, forcing John to take a step to keep up. When his foot lands, though, it falls on their living room floor in Baker Street, far from the strange place they’d just visited.

 

He blinks in shock when he finds himself back at home, and he stares around himself for a moment as his brain catches up to his body. If it weren’t for the lantern Sherlock pulls out of his grasp and takes into the kitchen, he’d be sure he’d never left 221B in the first place. The lantern is with them, though, so he knows they’ve really gone and come back, even if he doesn’t really understand it. Now that they’re home and the magical atmosphere has been broken, he realizes that surely, Sherlock did something to get them home. Something occurs to him and he charges into the kitchen, his awareness and adrenaline snapping back full force.

 

“You – could you have gotten us out of there at any time?” John asks, pointing his finger at Sherlock in accusation.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, transferring some of the nectar into two wine glasses. He is clearly unrepentant

 

John just stares for a moment, looking away and breathing through his nose before swinging his head back around to stare at Sherlock. “And you didn’t think to get us out a little sooner?”

 

“John, this nectar is extremely delicious, and you can only get it once a year,” Sherlock says, as if what he’s saying is perfectly reasonable.

 

John blinks and for a moment his mouth drops open, an angry retort ready to fall from his lips, but then he can’t help it; his shoulders start to shake and he laughs again, unsure of how else to deal with this situation, and he covers his face with his hands. He’s not sure he’s grasped it yet, and he doesn’t resist when Sherlock pushes him down into a chair, his hands warm on John’s shoulder.

 

“Let’s go to the roof,” Sherlock says. “I’ll just get my pipe. You wait here; you’re a bit shocky.”

 

John’s staring at the lantern, trying to process all that’s just happened, when Sherlock comes back. Sherlock’s wrapped in his dressing gown again, holding his pipe in one hand. Redbeard is draped across the other, squeaking a bit more than usual and craning his neck towards John. Sherlock holds his hand out and John absently mirrors the move, watching as Redbeard bridges the distance between them and contentedly curls around John’s wrist.

 

John keeps his hand where it is for a moment and watches Redbeard, surprised that he feels more relaxed with the little pipefox on his arm. He feels both his frustration with Sherlock and his mild shock slip away now that they’re home and safe and things have sunken in a bit. He glances up at Sherlock, feeling unaccountably fond. “Did you know that’s what would happen when you gave me that arrow?” he asks.

 

Sherlock shrugs. “It just seemed like it would come in handy,” he says, but John doesn’t buy it, and he grins, standing up.

 

“Shall I take the lantern, then?” he asks, already reaching for it. Sherlock nods, and John takes it and one of the glasses while Sherlock takes the other. Together, they go up to the roof, carefully carrying everything.

 

Once there, they sit beside each other, and Sherlock holds his glass up to John’s.

 

“Cheers,” Sherlock says, and John echoes him, clinking their glasses together before taking a sip of the nectar. It tastes even better than John remembers, perhaps because it’s fresh, and he closes his eyes, savoring the sweet taste.

 

“Worth a life and death situation, don’t you think?” Sherlock asks, pulling a lighter out of his pocket and lighting his pipe.

 

John snorts. “I guess so, yeah.”

 

A comfortable silence falls between them, save for the sounds of Sherlock inhaling his pipe and the distant traffic sounds from the street below.

 

“You’re really making an impression, aren’t you?” Sherlock asks a moment later, exhaling a long stream of smoke into the cool night air.

 

“Hmm?” John replies in confusion.

 

Sherlock shrugs and inhales his long pipe again. He holds the smoke in his mouth a moment, then tilts his head back to blow it slowly into the darkness. “Making lots of good friends, like Angelo’s son,” he says, though it doesn’t completely explain his comment.

 

John laughs. “I guess,” he says.

 

Sherlock glances at him and tilts his head, blinking a bit. “You didn’t have a lot of friends growing up,” he says.

 

“No,” John says. “I didn’t. I didn’t realize it wasn’t normal to see the things I saw until I’d already mentioned them to enough people for everyone to think I was mad. Nobody wants to be friends with the kid who says there’s an old lady with her head cut off on the swing set.”

 

Sherlock laughs and drinks his nectar, and John can’t be offended by the laugh, not really.

 

“What about you?” John asks, turning to him, eager to know more about Sherlock’s past.

 

“I had Redbeard,” Sherlock says with a shrug. Redbeard peeks his head up from John’s wrist, glancing towards Sherlock, who reaches out and gently scratches him underneath his tiny chin, his fingers intimately, tantalizingly close to John’s neck for just a moment until they retreat. John fights the urge to lean into them.

 

They’re silent for a moment, drinking their nectar. “I had a best friend once,” John says suddenly. He sees Sherlock’s head turn towards him in his peripheral vision, so he continues, his eyes trained on his glass. “I met him on the way home from school. I was walking home and I kept seeing these stupid bloody _hands_ – they were decaying and rotting and sticking out of the pavement, and they’d just be all limp until I came close, then they’d suddenly chase after me. It was weird – they just sort of slid through the pavement or the grass or whatever and followed me.”

 

“How old were you?” Sherlock asks, and John’s relieved to tell this story to someone and have them believe it and not question his sanity.

 

“Hmm,” John says, drinking as he thinks back. “Nine, maybe. Anyway, I was walking home through the park one day and one of them popped out in front of me and I was running from it when this boy reached out and took my hand. He threw some salt over his shoulder and it distracted the hands, then he pulled me along to this little rock wall. For some reason, the hands couldn’t follow us there. He was the first person I ever met who could see them, too, and we sat there a while, talking about it.”

 

John’s quiet for a moment, and so is Sherlock. Sherlock’s taking another drag of his pipe, and the smell, once annoying, has become comforting to John. “We met every day after school for a few months, until it was his birthday. We were going to celebrate together, but when I got to the park where we usually met, he was crying. He said it was time for him to go. I didn’t know what he meant; I thought maybe he was moving.”

 

“He was a ghost,” Sherlock murmurs.

 

“Yes,” John said.

 

“You helped him come to terms with his death,” Sherlock surmises, and John nods. He takes another sip of his drink.

 

“It was like that until I went to uni, made a fresh start,” John says. “I was the kid with no parents who said weird creepy shit. He was my only friend, really, when I was younger.”

 

“And at uni?” Sherlock prompted.

 

“I had mates,” John says. “We went out, got pissed, you know how it is. But it wasn’t…none of them knew who I actually was because I had to lie all the time. I think I was quite forgettable to them, to be honest. Just another bloke at the pub. It was a bit different in the army, but not by much.”

 

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, taking a long drink and then setting down his glass. He takes a drag on his pipe and John watches the smoke as it drifts out of Sherlock’s mouth, mixing with the cool night air, before Sherlock picks up his glass once more.   “And now?” Sherlock asks, his tone of voice deceptively casual, but John can see from the way his eyes are focused on the distant streetlights rather than him that he’s not asking this casually at all.

 

“Now’s a bit different, isn’t it?” John says, a small smile on his face and his pulse inexplicably quickening.

 

Sherlock shrugs, and chances a glance at John, a half-smile quirked on his lips. “Is it?”

 

“Do you think I'm forgettable?” John asks in lieu of a proper answer. He keeps his voice light, teasing, but somehow, he’s desperate to hear the answer.

 

Sherlock smiles and takes a long drag of his pipe. He lets it out slowly before answering, and John can’t stop staring.   “Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock finally says. “Of course not. Do _you_ think you’re forgettable? That’s the important question, isn’t it?”

 

John drains his glass and reaches towards the lantern to carefully refill it. It’s a bit awkward to pour, but he makes do. “ _You’re_ certainly not forgettable,” John replies after a moment, Sherlock’s question bouncing answerless around his mind. “Nobody can forget such an annoying dick.”

 

Sherlock laughs, so loud that it startles John and he nearly – _nearly_ – spills a drop of the nectar, but manages to save it, and he can’t help but laugh along with Sherlock, letting the question go for the time being.

 

\--

 

John opens the door to 221B after a long day at work and, instead of shouting or giving in to his urge to just turn around and go back outside when he sees what Sherlock’s doing, he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face and just stares at Sherlock, who is firing arrows into a very large pillow that’s now stuck to their wall, held in place by previously fired arrows.

 

“John, perfect timing,” Sherlock says, without turning away from the pillow to look at John. “I’ve run out of arrows.”

 

“Get them yourself,” John says. He’s tired, and doesn’t want to go searching for Sherlock’s arrows.   “Don’t you have somewhere else you can shoot arrows without ruining our wall?”

 

Sherlock turns and looks at him curiously, his head tilted and his brow furrowed. “Oh,” he says, after a moment, clearly having understood the source of John’s mood. “Would you like tea?”

 

“You’re not going to ask what happened?” John asks. “That’s it? Just like that, you already know?”

 

Sherlock frowns. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to talk about it,” he says. He sounds a bit unsure, and John feels himself deflate a bit. He sits down in his armchair, letting his hands press into the comforting fabric of the arms for a moment, as Sherlock stares, his empty bow still in hand, his dressing gown hanging untied over his pajamas.

 

“I don’t, really,” John admits. “It was just…a bit of a shock. It’s the first patient I’ve had die on me in ages. It’s not like I work in the ER; it’s a clinic, for christ’s sake.”

 

Redbeard shifts against John’s neck, and John is grateful for it, and he reaches up to pet his head as Sherlock stares at him.

 

“Was Mary very upset?” Sherlock asks.

 

John regards him suspiciously for a moment, but when he seems genuinely curious and not judgmental, John answers, against his better judgment. “She was, actually. Felt guilty, she said, but I can’t see why. He had an aneurism; there’s nothing she could’ve done. She was actually quite kind to him.”

 

“She was?” Sherlock asks, setting down his bow and sitting in his armchair. He steeples his fingers under his chin and leans forward.

 

“Yeah,” John says. “When he came in, Mary was walking by him and he tripped, and she caught him – a reflex, you know? And she started apologizing to him even though she hadn’t done anything wrong – she _helped_ him, I don’t know why she was apologizing. She looked like she was practically in tears…it was a bit strange, actually,” he admits. “When he – you know. When he – when he _died,_ she was a mess.”

 

“She doesn’t usually have contact with patients?” Sherlock asks.

 

“No,” John says, unsure why they’re talking about Mary, but glad not to be thinking of his dead patient. “She mostly does billing and scheduling over the phone and stays behind the window at her desk.”

 

“Interesting,” Sherlock says. John sighs, frustrated, and settles into his chair, holding his fingers out for Redbeard to climb over them. He holds Redbeard in front of his face and looks at him for a moment, lettings his thoughts drift and listening as Sherlock goes to the kitchen. He hasn’t even realized time has passed until Sherlock is back, pressing a cup of tea into his hands. Grateful, he takes it, letting Redbeard wind around his wrist.

 

“John, you should know…it wasn’t your fault,” Sherlock says after a moment. He sounds uncomfortable and a bit stiff.

 

“I know,” John says. He feels oddly touched that Sherlock would say such a thing to him, but then a thought occurs to him. “It wasn’t Mary’s either,” he adds. “I don’t know why she felt so guilty; she went home early crying and apologizing.”

 

Sherlock says nothing, but he picks up his bow and sends an arrow straight into the center of the pillow on their wall.


	9. Part Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Billy go on a mysterious trip while John's left to hold down the fort at 221B with Mrs. Hudson and Redbeard. While Sherlock's gone, John makes a new friend and catches a cold, and there are some unexpected consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for hanging in there with my long silence between updates. Things got very busy in real life, and I also had a slight crisis about the ending of this story, which I've had planned and roughly written for quite some time and then changed around a bit. But after this part, there should be only 3-4 more, depending on how I cut the parts for length, and I'll be posting them in a much more reliable manner, I promise! The next part should be up within two weeks for sure. Sorry for the slow update, but hopefully you'll enjoy it. After this part, we'll be in for a wild ride until the finish! Thanks for reading! :)

John’s blearily pouring himself a cup of coffee and stifling a yawn, the early morning light of the kitchen window just bright enough to highlight how much the counters need a good cleaning, when Sherlock bustles out of his room. He’s dressed impeccably in a charcoal suit that almost seems sculpted to his body, and his hair is in perfect order, every curl in line. John’s eyebrows rise up on his forehead at Sherlock’s immaculate early morning fashion, and he can’t help but stare, coffee pot still in his hand and poised to pour.

 

Sherlock strides towards the mantle and John follows his progression across the sitting room with tired eyes. Questions are popping into his mind, as is usually the case when Sherlock is present, but he’s not sure he’s ready to hear any answers at this hour, and so he manages a bewildered furrow of his brow in Sherlock’s general direction and a small grunt of curiosity before he turns back to his coffee, pouring the rest of his cup and setting the pot back in its place. His mug is warm against his hands when he picks it up, and he leans against the counter as he closes his eyes and blows across the top, savoring the familiar smell, while Sherlock has a short conversation with Billy in the living room. John tunes them out and takes a much-needed sip of his coffee, feeling his shoulders settle and his mind sharpen even after one small taste. “Morning,” he calls out once he’s been fortified.

 

“John,” Sherlock greets. He comes to the kitchen door with Billy tucked under his arm. “Billy and I are going on a trip.”

 

John rubs his forehead and grimaces; it’s much too early for this, and Sherlock is far too animated and focused. “You – where?”

 

“It’s for a case, of sorts,” Sherlock says.

 

“Okay,” John says. He takes another sip of coffee. “Wait – do you need me, then?”

 

“No,” Sherlock replies. “We’ll be gone for a few days, though, so you’ll be on your own here with Mrs. Hudson for a while.”

 

“I’ll manage,” John says dryly, taking another sip of coffee, the morning cobwebs beginning to clear from his brain. “Wait, where are you going? You didn’t tell me.”

 

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock says, waving a hand flippantly.

 

“Nowhere fun,” Billy chimes in.

 

John frowns, eyes flickering between the two of them in suspicion. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come along?”

 

“Quite sure,” Sherlock says. “It’s nothing but a consultation; you’d be quite bored. I’m sure you’ll find something to do here instead.”

 

John wants to protest, assure him that he wouldn’t be bored, he’d be _helpful_ , but it’s too early to try to appeal to Sherlock. He gives it up as a lost cause before he even tries; he’s learned to pick his battles. “Have you had breakfast at least?” he asks instead.

 

“There’s no need,” Sherlock replies. “Anyway, John, I won’t have mobile service, but if I need you, I’ll call the landline.”

 

John stares at Sherlock in confusion for a moment, his lips parted and his brow furrowed. “What – landline? We don’t have a landline,” he says.

 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and points to the coffee table. Perched on top of it is an old rotary phone John’s quite sure he’s never seen before. It’s black, and there’s a silver fleur-de-lis inside the dial. The handset connects to the base with a long, twirling cord that makes John think of his childhood.

 

“Where did that come from?” John asks.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “A phone factory,” he says. “Do keep up, John.”

 

John sighs. “It’s a little early for this,” he complains. He looks at the phone again, then turns to Sherlock and tilts his head with a furrowed brow, narrowing his eyes and trying to assess whether or not Sherlock is playing a trick on him. “Sherlock, that phone’s not plugged into anything.”

 

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock repeats, and John closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

 

“No,” he says. “No, Sherlock, I think that’s pretty relevant -”

 

“It’s really not,” Sherlock insists. “Don’t be dull. Now, Billy and I must be off.”

 

Sherlock goes and grabs his coat from where it’s hung on the back of the flat door and John just shakes his head and stands in the kitchen doorway, sipping his coffee and watching as Sherlock sets Billy down for a moment to put on his coat. Sherlock takes the time to put on his scarf as well, now that autumn is beginning to feel more like winter, and John can’t help but think of what an elegant figure Sherlock makes with his long coat and blue scarf. Sherlock picks Billy up again, but instead of going out the door like a normal human being leaving for a trip, he heads past John to his bedroom, winking at John.

 

“See you later, John,” he calls, disappearing into his room. John shakes his head at the lack of surprise this unusual behavior strikes in him and follows after. He goes inside and lingers near the doorway, watching as Sherlock pulls open his closet door. “I’ll be in touch,” Sherlock adds.

 

Sherlock pauses for a moment with his hand on the doorknob, one step into his closet, and he turns back to John. He hesitates, his breath catching, and then his eyes meet John’s for a moment and he’s very serious. “Be careful,” he says. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

 

John frowns, taken aback by Sherlock’s sudden intensity. “Why would I do something stupid?”

 

“The same reasons anyone would,” Sherlock says. “Laters!” he calls, his appearance changing from deadly serious to facetious in the blink of an eye, and then, before John can even process the morning or the strange sendoff, Sherlock and Billy are gone, and John is alone.

 

He stares in the direction of Sherlock’s closet for a while, thinks of the bread waiting to be toasted in the kitchen, shakes his head, and goes back to eat breakfast. He definitely isn’t awake enough for this.

 

\--

 

A few hours later and John has showered, completed the crossword, and cleaned the kitchen, and he’s left with a chilly but clear Sunday to himself. As Sherlock had promised, the spirits don’t seem to bother him as much these days, so he feels comfortable going out for a walk, maybe going to the park and then the grocery store.

 

He leaves Redbeard at home, eager to have a day to just himself, but as he’s locking the door to 221B behind him, he can’t help but frown when he looks beside him.

 

“Er, can I help you?” he asks.

 

An old man is standing next to the steps of 221B, staring up at the building in confusion. He doesn’t reply to John, so John clears his throat. “Sorry, sir, can I help you?” John asks again, and this time, the old man looks up. He looks at John with raised eyebrows before looking to the left and right, seeing no one nearby, and then pointing to himself questioningly, looking back at John. John nods.

 

“Oh,” the old man says and laughs. His voice is thin but jovial. “I didn’t realize you were talking to me. Everybody ignores old people these days; maybe they’re afraid we’ll need help or something,” he says, chuckling to himself a bit. “You live here? Sorry I’m just standing outside your doorstep. I used to live on this street and I never noticed this building before,” he says. “I was just taking a look, trying to jog my memory.”

 

“Oh,” John says. “Well, yeah, it’s, er, always been here, as far as I know.” He gives a slightly uncomfortable smile and looks away from the man and squints against the bright light of the sun for a moment. He’s not sure what to do; he doesn’t want to leave a stranger on his doorstep while no one’s home, but he doesn’t want to stand here with the old man, either. He glances back at the old man, ready to make an awkward excuse that will get both of them to be on their way, but he notices a pin on the old man’s jacket. “Are you a veteran?” John asks, gesturing towards it.

 

The man glances down and sees his pin, then looks up at John with a smile. “Sure am,” he says proudly. “I fought in World War II. I was only twenty when it finished; I only fought in the tail end. I’m probably one of the last ones left, don’t you think?”

 

John’s in a good mood, and despite the initial awkwardness of the situation, he can’t help but be impressed. “Wow,” John says. “That’s – you must have a lot of stories.”

 

The old man smiles, and it stretches paper-thin across his face, his skin etched with deep wrinkles and lines. He reaches out and pats John’s arm with a wrinkled, leathery hand. “It’s a long time ago,” he says with a shrug. “But I’m an old man, and I know a military man when I see one. I’m not the only one who fought, am I?”

 

John gives him a thin smile. “Afghanistan,” he says. He hesitates, and then tilts his head a bit. “I was just going for a bit of a walk, would you like to come?”

 

The old man smiles again. “I’d love to,” he says. “It’s very lonely, being an old man. Everybody I know is dead. A walk sounds like just what I need. Are you sure, though? I’m not really exciting company for a young man like you.”

 

“I think you’ll be exciting enough,” John says, eager for a bit of normalcy in his life. He grins and steps down to the pavement, thinking this day is proving interesting already, even without Sherlock. He holds out his arm for the old man, who takes it gratefully and shuffles alongside John.

 

“It was a long time before I could get used to letting somebody lead me around like this, you know,” the man says conspiratorially. “Made me realize how old I am. But I’m ninety years old; I think I’ve earned a bit of help now and then.”

 

“I should think so,” John agrees. “I’m John, by the way. John Watson.”

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, John. I’m Arthur, but you can call me Art; that’s what all my friends used to call me,” Arthur says.

 

“Nice to meet you, Art,” John says with a grin. He thinks it’s nice to have the weight of the old man against his arm, and he thinks of Sherlock with a bit of a vindictive pleasure; everything in his life has been about Sherlock and Sherlock only for the past few months, and he feels smug about going out and finding a friend of his own and enjoying his day without any demands from Sherlock.

 

They walk companionably to the park; Arthur tells John about all the things that have changed since he was young, and John finds it soothing to talk to someone without a skull present. Arthur is interesting, too, and John finds himself asking questions, curious about the wealth of knowledge he possesses.

 

When they get to Regent's Park, Arthur knowledgeably steers John to a secluded corner, and finds an empty bench all by itself beneath a tree that provides ample shade. They sit together, and the conversation flows easily. John doesn’t always like talking to people; sometimes, he just doesn’t have the patience, but it’s nice, talking to Arthur.

 

“You know,” Arthur says after a while, “I haven’t talked to someone like this in a long time. Thank you.”

 

John shakes his head. “You don't have to thank me,” he says. “It’s been a pleasure.”

 

“It’s lonely, being an old man,” he replies. “I had a family once, a wife and a son. My son died in Borneo; he fought in the Indonesia-Malaysia war in the sixties. It was a long time ago now, but you never really get over something like that, you know?”

 

John knows what it’s like to lose someone, and even what it’s like to lose someone to war, but he doesn’t know what it’s like to lose a child. He’s not sure what to say.

 

“My wife died not long after,” Arthur continues, saving John the need to reply. “She got sick; cancer.”

 

“I’m sorry,” John says. He finds that he means it very sincerely, and wishes he had something more substantial to say, but he’s never been particularly good at talking about things like this.

 

Arthur shakes his head and turns to John with a fond smile. He pats John’s arm. “It’s all in the past,” he says. “Don’t worry about it. If he were still alive, though, I’d like to imagine he’d be something like you. You’re a good man, John, I can tell.”

 

John grins and flushes. “I don’t know about that,” he says.

 

Arthur laughs. “That just proves it; modest, too.”

 

They’re quiet for a moment, and John feels a strange connection with the man after the serious topics they’ve strayed to. He hesitates, but slowly starts talking. “I know what it’s like to be lonely,” he says. “We all do, don’t we? Coming back to...to this.”

 

“When did you come back?” Arthur asks him.

 

“Less than a year ago,” John says. “It’s been…god, it was hard coming back. I had a terrible bedsit I hated being in and no friends. I was miserable and lonely. To be honest, I’ve always been lonely, ever since I was a kid. But it’s a different kind of loneliness when you come back.” He pauses and clears his throat. He hasn’t admitted this out loud, not really, but he thinks this old man knows what it’s like. He furrows his brow and trains his eyes on the ground. “I had nothing here, nothing to live for. It wasn’t…it wasn’t good. I felt like I had no place in this world, nothing to live for. Wasn’t sure I wanted to live.”

 

Arthur is quiet for a moment, and the sounds of the park seem distant to John, far from the little bubble he’s in with Arthur where his words echo over and over in his ears. Arthur pats his arm and leaves his hand there. “And now?” he asks.

 

John gives a rueful laugh, his hunched shoulders shaking a bit. “Now it’s different,” he says. “I share a flat with a bloody lunatic, but I wouldn’t trade him for the world.”

 

“Baker Street’s a nice place for a bachelor pad,” Arthur muses. “I had some good times there in my youth.”

 

“It’s not exactly a bachelor pad,” John says. “My flatmate is a little – he’s a bit odd. But I don’t feel so lonely anymore, not with him around.”

 

It feels good to talk about this, John realizes, to give voice to thoughts he’s had but had been unwilling to admit to. He’s been so caught up in his life with Sherlock that the problems he’d faced upon his return to England had seemed fuzzy, a distant memory he didn’t need to revisit. But now, in Sherlock’s absence, it’s easy to remember them in startling clarity, and it’s _Sherlock_ who feels like a dream, even though he’s only been gone for a few hours. John’s surprised to find that he misses him.

 

“That’s good,” Arthur says, shaking John out of his thoughts. His voice is gentle, and John looks up at him, a tentative smile on his face. He feels close to Arthur after having such a personal conversation with him; he rarely has them with _anyone_. “Loneliness is terrible, isn’t it?” Arthur muses.

 

“It is,” John agrees.

 

“But you certainly help with mine,” Arthur says. He grins. “Anyway, you’ve been kind enough to let an old man take up a lot of your day already; I’m sure you have a lot to do.”

 

John smiles. “It’s alright, really; I enjoyed talking with you,” he says. He’s surprised to find that he’s being honest. He thinks of the old man, all alone in the world after having risked his life to protect, and he feels protective, somehow, eager to make it up to him somehow. “Would you like to meet tomorrow? I work until around 3, but if you’ve nothing else on…”

 

Arthur laughs. It’s loud and contagious, and John finds himself grinning. “Surprising as it may be, tomorrow is completely free,” Arthur says. “Do you pass through the park on your way home? We could meet here again, right on this bench.”

 

John smiles. “I’ll make it on my way,” he promises.

 

“I look forward to it,” Arthur says. John stands and looks at Arthur questioningly, but Arthur smiles. “I’m going to stay here for a while and enjoy the day. See you tomorrow, John.”

 

“See you then,” John says. He waves at Arthur and leaves, stowing his cold hands in his pockets but holding his head high. He smiles, his heart feeling light in his chest. It’s unlike him to make friends with a stranger, but it feels nice to talk to another veteran, let alone someone who isn’t Sherlock.

 

\--

 

“John, are you feeling okay?”

 

John looks up from the table in the break room of the clinic. “I’m alright,” John says. “I think I’m getting a cold.”

 

Mary frowns and sits across from him in the furthest possible seat away.

 

“You could sit at the other table if you want,” John says. “You don’t want to get sick.”

 

“It’s fine. Whatever you’ve got, I’m sure I’ve been exposed to it, too, working here. How are things with Sherlock?” Mary asks, opening her lunch bag.

 

“He’s away,” John says. He picks at his sandwich, but doesn’t move to take a bite. “He left Sunday morning, and hasn’t been back.”

 

Mary raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Really? That’s a long time.   Do you know when he’ll be back?”

 

John shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “No,” he says. “I would’ve thought he’d be back by now, to be honest. I mean, it’s Tuesday. He did say he’d be gone for a few days, but it’s a bit unusual.” He stifles a yawn and then reaches for his coffee, hoping it will wake him up a bit. He’s been feeling worn out the past few days, and there’s a tickle in his throat he doesn’t like. He scowls at the thought that Sherlock will likely blame his catching a cold on their being separated.

 

“Maybe you should go home and rest,” Mary suggests. “You really seem like you’re coming down with something.”

 

“No, it’s fine,” John says, shaking his head. “Really, it is.”

 

Mary hesitates, ripping off a piece of her sandwich and holding it between her fingers for a moment before looking up at John. “Have you seen any spirits or anything?” she asks. “Maybe without Sherlock here, something has-”

 

“Not everything is about Sherlock,” John interrupts. “There haven’t been any spirits. I’ve been doing fine; I even made a new friend.”

 

“A new friend?” Mary asks, her brow furrowed.

 

John huffs out a laugh. “Is that so shocking?”

 

“Oh,” Mary says, a small smile creeping onto her face. “Sorry, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just curious. I never hear you talk about anyone besides Sherlock.”

 

John grins. “I guess it is rarer than I’d like to admit,” he concedes.

 

“Well, who is he? Or she?” Mary asks, popping the piece of sandwich in her mouth, finally.

 

“He,” John confirms. “I met him outside the flat, actually. He’s old – around ninety. He fought in World War II, and he hasn't got any family left.”

 

“Outside your flat?” Mary asks.

 

John frowns. “Yeah,” he says. “Is that honestly what surprises you? Not that I’ve made friends with a ninety year old war veteran?”

 

Mary waves her hand flippantly. “You’re a veteran, too, John, and you like helping people. It’s not that surprising,” she says. “But why was he outside your flat?”

 

John shrugs. “He said he used to live on Baker Street and he never noticed it before; he was just looking at it when I went out to get some groceries on Sunday.”

 

Mary’s looking at him with a flat stare he doesn’t like. “What?” John asks. “He’s just a harmless old man.”

 

“But he was looking at your flat?” Mary asks shrewdly.

 

“Yeah, what’s the big deal? Is that supposed to alarm me?” John asks, getting frustrated.

 

Mary frowns and ignores John’s question. “Have you seen him again, since Sunday?”

 

“Yeah, I met him at the park after work yesterday, and I’ll meet him again today,” he says. He sounds more aggressive than he means to, but he doesn’t like Mary’s tone.

 

“You should be careful, John,” she says.

 

“Of a ninety year old?” John asks, disbelief coloring his voice.

 

Mary doesn't reply, she just frowns and goes back to her sandwich. John sighs and wraps his up again, grabs his coffee, and goes to his office. He tosses the sandwich out on the way.

 

\--

 

John makes his way to the park on his way home, but his shoulders are hunched and he’s shivering with cold. He coughs, and he doesn’t like the deep barking sound of it; he’s definitely getting a cold. He’s tired, but he’s looking forward to seeing Arthur.

 

When he gets to their bench, Arthur is already there. He looks up with a furrowed brow when he takes in John’s appearance. He stands, and carefully, and takes John’s arm and pulls him down

 

“Aren’t I supposed to be helping you around?” John asks with a smile, his voice hoarse.

 

Arthur frowns, the many wrinkles in his face shifting downwards. “You’re sick,” he says. Anxiety creeps into his voice, and John feels guilty to cause him worry.

 

“It’s nothing,” John says. “I work in a clinic; sometimes I catch a cold. Actually, you should probably not get too close; I wouldn’t want you getting sick, too.”

 

Arthur shakes his head. “I’m an old man,” he says. “I have an immune system of steel.”

 

John laughs. “I’m not sure it works like that,” he says and then coughs, turning away from Arthur.

 

“You don’t sound very good,” Arthur says. “You should call up your girl, have her come take care of you.” He grins and wiggles his eyebrows, and John laughs.

 

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” John says. “It’s just me.”

 

“What about your family?” Arthur asks.

 

John shakes his head. “They’re dead,” he says. “My parents died when I was young. I don’t remember them much, but my father was a bit of an alcoholic dick, to be honest. My mother was nice, though.”

 

Arthur puts his hand on John’s arm. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It must have been hard growing up without parents. But you know, John, for what it’s worth, I would have been proud to call you my son.”

 

Arthur’s voice is gruff, and John smiles and feels a surge of unexpected affection. He pats Arthur’s hand with his own free hand for a moment, but then takes it away, lest he spread germs.

 

“You should go home and rest,” Arthur says. “You don’t look very good.”

 

“Maybe you’re right,” John concedes. His head is pounding. “But I work again tomorrow – will you be here tomorrow afternoon? I’ll stop by on my way home.”

 

“I’ll be here,” Arthur says. “But if you don’t feel well, don’t come. I won’t be offended. You should rest.”

 

John smiles, though it’s a bit weary. “I’ll be here,” he says. “I guess I should go home now, though.” He stands and stays still for a moment when he feels dizzy. Arthur reaches out to steady him, and John smiles in thanks.

 

“Get lots of rest,” Arthur says. He’s watching John with a frown, his brow furrowed. He looks extremely worried.

 

“I will,” john assures him. “Don’t worry about me. See you tomorrow.”

 

“See you,” Arthur replies, sitting back down on the bench as John walks away. John makes his way slowly out of the park, the early winter chill making him too cold to be comfortable. He coughs more than he’d like on his way home, and he feels a bit feverish. By the time he makes it to Baker Street, he’s exhausted, and glad to be home.

 

He trudges up the steps and startles when he hears a high pitched ringing sound coming from his flat. The door swings open and Mrs. Hudson pops her head out. “Hello, dear, I was just cleaning up for you a bit – I’m not your housekeeper, mind – and your phone started ringing, it must be Sherlock, I think. Oh you _do_ look terrible, don’t you?”

 

“Yes, I do, thanks for noticing,” John says. He gives her a tight smile and walks past her, ignoring her frown, and goes towards the phone if only to make the abrasive noise stop. He picks up the receiver and sags into the couch.

 

“Hello?” he says.

 

“John,” Sherlock says. His voice is crackly, and John wonders where he is. “You’re sick.”

 

John huffs a laugh. “Yeah, getting a cold. Should I be surprised you know that?”

 

John startles when Mrs. Hudson comes closer to him and holds out her hand, giving him a stern look. He frowns in confusion, but sees that she’s holding Redbeard. He sighs and holds up his hand, and Redbeard scurries over his fingers. He feels warm, and John is pleased to feel his familiar weight.

 

“You’re not getting a cold,” Sherlock says. “Be careful.”

 

John sighs. “I’m a doctor, Sherlock, I think I know what a cold is.”

 

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock says sharply. “Just be careful.”

 

“I know how to take care of myself,” John complains. He feels tired, and he just wants to rest.

 

“Of course you do,” Sherlock says, but sarcasm is thick in his voice.

 

John rubs his forehead wearily. “When will you be back?”

 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says. The reception is bad, and his voice is cutting in and out. “We still haven’t found the person we’re looking for.”

 

John frowns. “Oh,” he says. It’s strange to think that there’s something Sherlock can struggle with. “I hope you find him soon,” he adds.

 

“John,” Sherlock says suddenly. “I have to go. I’ll call you again. Be careful.”

 

Before John can say anything, a dial tone cuts across the line, and he musters up the energy to lean forward and put the phone back on the receiver, then leans back, holding his hand up and looking at Redbeard, who’s sitting on his fingers.

 

Redbeard looks at him and makes some fast, frantic squeaking sounds, and John holds his hand closer to his face, and when Redbeard leans in and presses a kiss against his cheek, John closes his eyes and is surprised by how nice it feels.

 

“I’ll make you a cuppa,” Mrs. Hudson says. “You really don’t look good.”

 

“Mm, okay,” John says, and lets her.

 

\--

 

When John comes home after seeing Arthur on Thursday, he can hear the phone ringing from the sidewalk before he even puts his key in the lock. He sighs and rubs a hand over his forehead, then makes his way inside. The warmth of being indoors feels good, but he stops to have a coughing fit before he makes his way up the stairs. He’s been getting worse since he first started feeling ill on Tuesday; the clinic told him not to come in tomorrow, and he’s inclined to think they have the right idea.

 

The phone continues to ring shrilly, and he sighs as he makes his way over to it. Redbeard is curled atop the receiver, so he holds his hand out for Redbeard first, who feels warm and familiar against his skin. He picks up the receiver and collapses into the couch, but before he can say hello, he’s overtaken by a coughing fit.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” he finally gasps, his voice harsh and grating. “Sherlock?”

 

“John,” Sherlock says. His voice is crackly again, but there’s a sense of urgency to his tone that makes John listen carefully. “I told you to be careful. Stop seeing that man.”

 

“What? Art?” John asks, pleased at the feeling of Redbeard slithering up his sleeve, but too tired to shift his arm to make it easier for him.

 

“It’s his fault you’re sick,” Sherlock says. “Stop seeing him.”

 

John closes his eyes and leans his head back against the couch. “How can it be his fault?” he asks.

 

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock says. “You need to stop seeing him.”

 

John is silent for a moment, and the only sound is the crackling over the line. He covers his eyes with his hand and feels Redbeard press a kiss against his hot, feverish neck. “He told me that, too,” John admits, feeling a wrench in his gut upon saying it out loud. His voice is more constricted than he’d like to admit, and his eyes burn, though it could be from fever. “He said I should stay home and rest.”

 

“Then listen to him,” Sherlock says. “And listen to me. Stop seeing him.”

 

“But I –”

 

“Do you want to die?” Sherlock asks him.

 

John laughs, though it’s humorless. “I’m not gonna die, Sherlock. I’m just keeping an old man company.”

 

“I told you not to do anything stupid,” Sherlock says. “I told you -” Sherlock’s voice cuts out, and then the line goes staticky, a few bits and pieces of words cutting through that John can’t understand until there’s nothing but a dial tone. He sighs and hangs the phone up, then covers his face with his hands and lies down on the couch, Redbeard curled around his neck, slithering back and forth against his skin and kissing him every chance he can get.

 

\--

 

John sleeps through most of Friday, waking only for coughing fits, or to find another blanket. Redbeard stays curled around his neck, and John is grateful. He’s feverish, he knows, but as the clock gets closer to 3:30, the usual time he meets Arthur, an anxiety builds inside of him that he can’t ignore. He wants to see him.

 

Sherlock feels like a distant dream rather than a real person, having been gone so long, but Arthur is real, and kind. John thinks of him sitting alone on the park bench, and he’s shocked to find his eyes burning and this throat constricting, tears beginning to pool in the corner of his eyes. He turns his face into his pillow and fights the feeling, keeps it at bay, but he wants to see Arthur even though he know s it’s a bad idea. Redbeard cranes up to press a kiss against John’s temple, and his little face feels blessedly cool against John’s skin. Even so, John wearily brings his hand up and urges Redbeard onto his fingers. He puts him beside him on the bed and sits up, holding his head in his hands when the room spins around him. He coughs, his lungs burning and his throat scratchy and raw, and when he’s finished, he stares at his hand in horror, a red spot of blood bright on his palm.

 

He squeezes his eyes shut and ignores the way his hands shake, ignores the fear clawing at him, and stands. He makes his way to the bathroom on shaky legs and washes his hands thoroughly, then changes into jeans and a jumper. Redbeard is making frantic sounds, and he’s slithered along the floor to wind up the leg of John’s trousers. He’s made it all the way to his belt before John takes hold of him with a shaky hand. He holds him carefully and ignores his squirming, and takes him downstairs and deposits him on the mantle.

 

“I’ll see you later,” John says. His voice is crackly and raw, and it hurts to speak. He feels guilty when Redbeard makes a series of forlorn, low squeaks and cranes his little head towards John, but it’s already 3:29. He needs to see Arthur.

 

He goes downstairs and Mrs. Hudson is in the foyer, wringing her hands. “John, dear, you should really stay in,” she tells him.

 

“I have to go,” John says. He coughs again, but this time he’s grateful to see that there’s no blood.

Mrs. Hudson frowns and reaches out, holding her frail hand against his arm. He feels doubt creeping in on him, but he shakes his head, thinking of Arthur alone on the bench, alone for so many years, alone like him.

 

“I have to go,” John repeats.

 

“Be careful,” Mrs. Hudson says, and she covers her mouth with a hand as he turns away, an emotion John doesn’t want to think about sliding over her features.

 

As soon as he’s outside, John flags down a taxi; he’s much too tired to walk. He sinks into the seat eagerly. He’s glad to be off his feet and able to relax for a moment.

 

“Alright, mate?” the taxi driver asks him when he’s overtaken by a coughing fit.

 

“Fine,” John croaks.

 

“Only, you’re a bit peaky…”

 

“I’m _fine_ ,” John repeats, and the taxi driver shuts up.

 

When they get to the park, John shivers, the wind cold against his hot skin. He makes his way to their bench, ignoring the lively sounds around him, the idea of Arthur waiting for him and feeling lonely burned into his mind. When he gets there, Arthur is sitting alone, as John has been expecting, wringing his hands in his lap.

 

“Art,” John says in relief, once he’s within hearing distance.

 

Arthur stands, looking at John in concern. He makes his way to John and carefully takes his arm, leading him to the bench.

 

“John,” Arthur says. His voice is choked. “Why are you here?”

 

“I thought you’d be lonely,” John says, sitting heavily on the bench and wiping cold sweat from his forehead. He shivers. “I certainly was.”

 

“I knew this would happen,” Arthur says, his voice soft and shaky. “You shouldn't have-”

 

“I knew it would happen, too,” John admits.

 

“You – _what_? Then why would you come?” Arthur sounds anguished, his hands tight on John’s arm.

 

John smiles at him tiredly. “I couldn’t help it,” he says. “I’m lonely, too. I like seeing you. I feel better when I see you. It’s like having a family, isn’t it?”

 

Arthur looks stricken, and he takes his hand away from John’s arm. “John,” he says. “You – you’re too – ”

 

John turns away and coughs wetly into his hand. He can’t stop coughing, and it comes faster and faster, so much that he can barely breathe. He gasps to get air, but his lungs feel constricted, and Arthur’s hand is hovering over his shoulder, ready to help, when someone else speaks, voice sharp with authority.

 

“Don’t touch him.”

 

John looks up and sees Sherlock. He’s surprised enough that he manages to gasp in some air, and he tries to breathe shallowly through the small coughs that still try to take over.

 

“John,” Sherlock says, eyeing him carefully from a few feet away. “Could you really not tell that he’s not human?”

 

John shakes his head, his cheeks flushed with fever. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “He’s a good man, you don’t understand.”

 

“I understand perfectly well,” Sherlock says, and John looks up again to see Sherlock holding his bow, poised to shoot at the man. There’s no arrow in it, but for some reason, that doesn’t seem to matter.

 

“Sherlock,” John says desperately. Dimly, he notices that his face is wet. “You _can’t_ , you can’t.” He feels weak, too weak to do anything, but he makes himself stand and staggers in front of Arthur, throwing his arms out to either side.

 

“Move, John,” Sherlock says. His eyes are trained on Arthur, and his voice books no room for argument. There is an aura of power around him that John usually loves to see, but this time is different.

 

“Sherlock, please,” John says weakly.

 

“You’re _dying_ , John,” Sherlock says. “Get out of the way. I’m shooting whether you move or not.”

 

John feels a sob rise in his chest, and he watches as Sherlock pulls his arm back, taking deadly aim, before releasing it, a shower of golden sparks flying out from where the arrow would normally lie. John closes his eyes, braces himself, but before he can register what happens, Arthur steps in front of him, taking the arrow in the chest.

 

John’s eyes widen and his hands shake, and Arthur turns to him. He’s different, almost translucent now. “Thank you, John. If you were my son, I’d be proud to call you my own. You reminded me what it’s like not to be lonely; I’d forgotten.”

 

Before John can reply, the man simply disappears, and John is grasping at empty air before he weakly turns to Sherlock, angrier than he has the energy to be. “Why would you do that?” he demands. “Why would you – is it because he’s not human? Is it because you’re jealous I have _friends_?”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock says sharply. He slings his bow over his shoulder and approaches John, helps him sit on the bench for a moment. “It was my decision to make, and I made it.”

 

John coughs again, and he feels panic rise in him when the coughing won’t stop, but he’s relieved to feel the familiar warmth of Sherlock’s hand on his back, and to smell his soothing scent. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall forward onto Sherlock’s shoulder.

 

\--

 

When John wakes, he’s lying in his own bed. It’s much easier to breathe, and he feels warm and tired. He blinks blearily around the room, and wonders what time it is, and what day it is, but when he notices that Sherlock is sitting on the edge of his bed watching him, he focuses on him instead.

 

“Hello, John,” Sherlock says.

 

“Sherlock,” John says, his voice croaky from disuse. He clears his throat. “What time’s it?”

 

“Three PM,” Sherlock says. “You’ve been sleeping for nearly a day.”

 

“Oh,” John says. He’s not sure what else there is to say, after all. A movement catches his eye and he sees Mrs. Hudson standing by the open door, holding Billy. He’s not surprised to see them listening in, but he doesn’t have the energy to protest.

 

“How was your trip?” John asks, his words slightly slurred from exhaustion.

 

Sherlock sighs. “Uneventful,” he says. “I had to negotiate the terms of an old wish with a rather unsavory character. It took a long time to track him down, but we found him eventually and did what we had to do.”

 

“That’s…good?” John tries, and Sherlock nods.

 

“You’ve had a rather eventful week in my absence,” Sherlock remarks.

 

John swallows, his throat dry. “Been having a lot of those, really,” he says.

 

Sherlock smiles at him but says nothing, and the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. John feels unaccountably nervous.

 

“I guess I'm a bit pathetic, aren’t I?” John says, a weak laugh coming from his mouth. It’s better than the alternative, he thinks.

 

“A bit,” Sherlock agrees.

 

John laughs again, but it’s tinged with something darker and he hopes desperately he can control himself. “Is this when you tell me I should’ve listened to you?”

 

Sherlock looks at him shrewdly and then reaches out, covering John’s forearm with his hand. He rests it there, and it’s heavy and warm, comforting like a blanket. “Of course not,” Sherlock says. “It was your choice, after all. You made the choice to see him even though it put your health at risk. I told you before that people can wish for anything, John; happiness or unhappiness, for example. We all have wishes. You chose what you wished for at the time. So did I.”

 

For some reason, Sherlock’s quiet understanding is worse, _much_ worse, than if he’d angrily told John to listen to him next time, and John feels exposed under Sherlock’s watch. “I was so alone before I met you,” John tells him, his voice wavering. He doesn’t know why he’s telling him this now, and he stops and takes a deep breath, gathering resolve to continue. “For some reason, when you were gone, you seemed so far away again; it didn’t seem like I had any other choice. It seemed like he was all that was left for me. I don’t think I even realized the choice I was making.”

 

Sherlock is quiet for a moment. He’s looking at his hand on John’s arm, not at John’s face. “There’s always a choice, John,” Sherlock says. “But even so, I made a choice, too, and I understood it very well. I would make the same choice again if I had to. I knew you’d be angry with me, John, but I will do anything I have to do to keep you here and alive.”

 

It suddenly hits John exactly how close to death he’d been, and he covers his hands with his face, Sherlock’s hand falling uselessly from his forearm. He doesn't understand how it happened, doesn’t understand how he got taken in so far. He feels stupid and weak and vulnerable.

 

He uncovers his face for a moment and looks up at Sherlock, emotions he can’t name swirling inside of him. Wearily, he pushes himself up with trembling arms until he’s sitting. Sherlock watches in confusion, reaching out to help him and then pulling his hands back, unsure if his assistance is welcome. John looks at him for a moment and then carefully, so carefully, he leans forward and shifts until he can wrap his arms around Sherlock’s waist, leaning into him and holding him as close as he can. He feels nervous to do something like this, to reach out for Sherlock, who is usually so distant and unattainable, but it’s only a moment before Sherlock’s arms wrap around him in return, solid and secure. John eagerly sinks into the embrace, relief to be with Sherlock again tightening inside his chest, overwhelming him in its intensity. Sherlock is so warm and real that John can’t understand why he felt so alone the past few days while Sherlock was gone.

 

“Thank you,” John whispers, the words soft and raspy, pressed into Sherlock’s neck. One of Sherlock’s hands is twined into John’s short hair, and it shifts back and forth for just a moment and John presses himself closer to Sherlock, his heart beating quickly, eager to feel his warmth, but Sherlock suddenly lets go of him, holds him at arm’s length. John’s uncomfortably aware of how cold he suddenly feels and how wet his cheeks are, and he scrubs his face with a hand.

 

“You made your choice, John, but you’ll need to make another one soon,” Sherlock says after a moment.

 

“What?” John asks, confused. He’s having trouble keeping up with Sherlock’s line of conversation, but that’s nothing new, but he feels torn apart and raw, too, and uncomfortable under Sherlock’s close watch.

 

“You’ll have another opportunity to make a choice,” Sherlock says. “An important one. When it comes, I think you’ll be ready.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” John complains. He’s tired, and his head hurts. He doesn’t have the energy to think about Sherlock’s words.

 

“No, I suppose not,” Sherlock admits. His voice is gentle and soft and so caring that John feels devastated somehow, though he doesn’t understand why. “Lie down, John. You need rest.”

 

John does, settling back down under his sheets. Sherlock holds out his hand next to John’s neck and Redbeard crawls off his fingertips and onto John. Sherlock leaves his fingers there, just for a moment, soft against John’s neck in something like a caress, before he takes them away and stands up. John wants to tell him to stay, but sleep is already pulling at the corners of his being, pulling him under so that he only just hears the sound of his door closing and Sherlock talking quietly to Mrs. Hudson as he falls into a deep sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I'd love to hear your thoughts about this part! What did you think? I'd love to know! :) and if you'd like, you can find me on tumblr as slashscribe. thanks again for reading! talk to you soon! :)


	10. Part Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a mysterious nighttime visitor who tells him a bit about Sherlock's past, and something unexpected happens with Mary.

Though it’s nearly three in the morning, John climbs up to the roof of 221B in nothing but his pajamas. The nights have been getting progressively colder and he shivers, nothing but the thin cotton of his shirt to act as a flimsy barrier between him and the chilly air. Even so, something tells him to keep going rather than go back inside to get a jacket. There’s something deep inside of him leading him, telling him that the roof is where he needs to be, and though it’s a strange feeling, he doesn’t fight it.

 

As soon as he steps onto the roof, though, he stops short. Goosebumps break out over his skin and his eyes widen when he sees that a gray-haired man is standing on his roof smoking a cigarette, staring out over the London night sky as if there’s nothing unusual about his presence on a stranger’s roof. The man turns and seems just as startled to see John as John is to see him, and he hastily tosses his cigarette down, putting it out with the toe of his shoe.

 

Though it was a few weeks ago that John met Arthur, the experience is still fresh on his mind and he feels a shiver of distrust go up his spine, his jaw clenching and eyes narrowing. The man on the roof puts his arms in front of him in a gesture of surrender, palms facing John. “Easy,” he says, taking in John’s aggressive stance, his voice gruff but kind. “I’m a friend of Sherlock’s.”

 

John crosses his arms over his chest, subtly widening his stance and straightening his back in a defensive posture. It’s not unusual to meet Sherlock’s acquaintances in unexpected places, but this is his _roof_. It seems more than a little bit strange, even for something Sherlock’s involved in. “Prove it,” John says, though he’s not sure how he expects the man to do so.

 

The man looks away, eyes narrowed in concentration for a moment, before he turns back. “He’s much better friends with Billy than anyone should ever be with a skull,” he finally says, hands still raised in front of him. “But to be fair, Billy’s a lot more interactive than most skulls. A lot more sarcastic, too, come to think of it.”

 

John feels his shoulders settle a little at this and he looks at the man in closer assessment. Though his hair is grey, he doesn’t seem much older than John is, and he has rather handsome features and sincerity in the set of his eyes that John doubts is feigned.

 

“How’d you get on my roof?” John asks after a long moment in which the stranger stands still, not daring to adjust his placating body language, as John stares him down.

 

The man shrugs. “How does anyone get anywhere, mate?” he asks, smiling crookedly. Though John’s still not sure if this man is friend or foe, an answer as annoying as this proves he probably does know Sherlock, John thinks.

 

“What’s your name, then?” John continues. Against his better judgment, he’s beginning to trust this man.

 

“Greg Lestrade,” he says. “But if you mention me to Sherlock, don’t call me Greg. Bastard can never remember my first name.”

 

John snorts at this, and more of the residual tension from when he’d first met this man – Greg – slips away. Surely if he can call Sherlock a bastard in such a warm tone of voice, he must actually know and like him.

 

“And you’re John Watson,” Greg continues, cautiously lowering his arms. His eyes are focused intently on John, but there’s a smile on his face, and he shakes his head. “Never thought I’d see the day Sherlock would be anything but alone.”

 

“How do you know my name?” John asks suspiciously. His arms are still crossed over his chest, but some of the stiffness of his spine has settled.

 

“Everyone knows your name,” Greg says with a shrug. “Everyone who knows Sherlock, anyway.”

 

“How do _you_ know Sherlock?” John asks. It’s rare, he thinks, to find someone who knows Sherlock and still manages to seem somehow _normal_ , despite these bizarre circumstances. John finds himself willing to go with this, to talk to this man even though it’s all very, very odd. The same instinct that told him to go to the roof in the first place is telling him that this is okay, that he can trust this man. He just hopes he can trust his instincts as he relaxes his arms, uncrossing them and rubbing his cold hands together for warmth.  

 

Greg takes a seat on a small raised area of the roof, his shoulders hunched in a little bit because of the cold, and grins up at John. “Now that you’ve decided not to fight me, why don’t we sit and I’ll tell you?” he says. He gestures for John to sit near him, so John goes, a half smile on his face. He sits, but leaves a safe distance between them.

 

“I think fighting someone who shows up on your roof in the middle of the night is pretty reasonable, actually,” John says.

 

“Never said it wasn’t,” Greg replies with a shrug. “I’m just glad you didn’t punch first and ask questions later.”

 

John snorts. “Yeah, well, if I hadn’t met Sherlock, I probably would have, but I’ve met enough of his… _friends_ , or whatever they are, to start questioning how things seem on the surface,” he admits.

 

“Smart. He’s rubbing off on you,” Greg comments, nodding. “I’ve known him since he was a wee thing running after Mycroft and yelling at him for everything under the sun. Have you met Mycroft?” Greg asks, looking at him curiously.

 

John nods, intrigued.

 

“Right, then, you can imagine how they were as kids,” Greg says, but John finds that he can’t. “Sherlock annoyed Mycroft every chance he got – you know, chasing him round the forest, playing tricks on him, things like that. Mycroft used to get so mad he’d drench Sherlock with rain a few times a day.” Greg stops for a moment and chuckles. “Sherlock had it coming, the little prat. He always found ways to avoid Mycroft’s rain, though; he’s always been good with magic.”

 

John’s never imagined Sherlock as a child before; he’s never imagined him as anything other than what he is now. The idea of a mini Sherlock running and playing has honestly never occurred to him. He looks down for a moment, a small smile playing on his lips. He’s intrigued by this small glimpse into Sherlock’s world, this small facet of information that somehow makes him more human even in its absurdity. He files it away for later, and focuses back on Greg.

 

“It’s hard to imagine him as a kid,” John admits. “But if you grew up with the two of them, do you do magic, too, then?” He tilts his head to the side, curious about the man sitting beside him.

 

Greg shakes his head. He sighs and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small bag of hand-rolled cigarettes. “Do you mind?” he asks. “I’m trying to quit, but it’s rough.”

 

“Go ahead,” John says with a shrug. “Your lungs, mate.”

 

Greg laughs, and it’s so loud that John can’t help but grin with him. “Tell you what, John, just for that, I’m gonna give you the rest of these for safekeeping,” he says. “That way I’ll _have_ to quit.”

 

“You could just throw them out,” John points out.

 

Greg shrugs and turns his head, giving John a half-smile that seems too omniscient for John’s liking. “They may come in handy,” he says.

 

“I doubt it,” John replies, but when Greg lights a cigarette with a flick of his empty hand and then hands the small bag to John, John takes it, holding it carefully in his hands. “I thought you didn’t do magic…?” John asks, eyeing the lit cigarette.

 

“Oh, that?” Greg shakes his head. “That’s nothing, just a trick, really; learned it out of necessity.”

 

“Still magic,” John says, wondering exactly what kind of world Greg is used to that lighting a cigarette with a wave of his hand is normal.

 

“I guess,” Greg says with a shrug. “I’m sure you’ve realized there’s a lot to this world you haven’t figured out yet. Probably a bit overwhelming, too, with Sherlock the one to show you.”

 

“A bit, yeah,” John says, self-deprecation coloring his tone.

 

“Don’t be like that,” Greg says. “You’re making a great impression so far. Everyone knows your name.”

 

“Mycroft said that, too,” John says.

 

“Much as it pains me to have anything in common with that git, he’s right,” Greg says with a crooked grin.

 

John laughs; he likes Greg, though he won’t shake his residual wariness until he talks to Sherlock and confirms that Greg is who he claims he is.

 

“I don’t practice a lot of magic,” Greg says, going back to their earlier topic. “Not in the way Sherlock does. But there are things I can do.”

 

“Like what?” John asks. He’s always curious about Sherlock’s world, but for the first time, he’s talking to someone who seems like he might actually answer his questions, and his curiosity spikes.

 

“I’m a bit different from Sherlock and Mycroft,” Greg says. “I don’t do flashy things like they do. I can do the occasional bit of small telekinesis or things like that, nothing fancy.” He shrugs and takes a drag of his cigarette, which smells of regular tobacco, not like Sherlock’s special blend.

 

“I think telekinesis counts as fancy,” John says. “It may not mean much coming from me, though. I can’t do anything.”

 

Greg smiles at him, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “That’s not true,” he says. “You’re John Watson, after all.”

 

John furrows his brow. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m so bloody sick of not knowing anything.”

 

Greg grins and takes a drag of his cigarette again. He blows the smoke out slowly. “Sorry, John. You’ll find out eventually,” he says. “Anyway, I have a lot of knowledge about the history and rules of the kinds of magic we use. That’s why I’m useful to Sherlock; when he first started out, he had a lot of questions about how to balance wishes and their payment, things like that.”

 

John mulls this over for a moment. “Even though I’ve seen him grant wishes and do magic loads of times, I still don't understand how it works,” he says.

 

“Most people don’t,” Greg says. “And they’ve had much longer to try and figure it out than you’ve had. There’s a reason Sherlock’s the only wish granter; he’s the only one with the ability, for one thing, but I think he’s also the only one who can understand how to keep the balance.”

 

“What happens if wishes and payments aren’t balanced?” John asks.

 

Greg takes a long drag of his cigarette and slowly breathes out the smoke. “It’s complicated,” Greg says. “But it takes its toll on the wish granter. It’s not pretty.”

 

John frowns, wondering what this means. He has a lot more questions, but he’s beginning to feel tired, and he yawns suddenly, covering his mouth with his hand.

 

“Tell Sherlock I said hello, yeah?”

 

“Are you-” John means to ask if he’s leaving, but his words are cut off by a second jaw-splitting yawn, exhaustion suddenly sweeping over him in waves as if he’s been drugged. He blinks blearily, his head swimming. He looks towards Greg in what he hopes is accusation, but he can’t be sure because he feels himself falling asleep.

 

\--

 

When John wakes again, he’s lying in his bed in exactly the same position he’d been in when he went to bed around eleven the night before, and he’s clutching the bag of cigarettes in his hand. He looks at it in confusion, and his confusion grows deeper when he hears the rain outside. It had been raining when he went to bed the night before, and it’s raining now, and yet the roof hadn’t been wet when he’d met Greg around three, and he has no recollection of actually leaving his bed or returning to it.

 

Redbeard is curled around his neck, his little furry body warm and dry. He hadn’t been with John on the roof, but John can’t remember pulling him off before he went or picking him up afterward. John’s window is locked, and he can’t remember coming back inside and locking it. He’d call meeting Greg a dream since he clearly hasn’t left his bed, and yet, there is a small pouch of cigarettes in his hand that had been given to him by one Greg Lestrade, who he can remember as clearly as anyone else he’s met in his life, and not in the hazy way he usually remembers figures from his dreams. He stares at the cigarettes in wonder, and then hears the sounds of Sherlock rummaging around downstairs.

 

He needs to talk to Sherlock about this, he realizes, adrenaline washing over him. He swings his legs over the side of his bed, still holding the bag in his hand, and he takes a moment, despite his need for answers, to rub his thumb over the very tangible, very real bag. He tries to make sense of his night as Redbeard comes awake, making a soft squeak of contentment. Redbeard stretches his little body out, pulling himself taut before relaxing and coiling back around John’s neck. He kisses John’s neck, as usual, and then settles down to stay curled up next to his pulse; he’s been extra vigilant since John met Arthur. John makes his way down the stairs and absently reaches up to stroke Redbeard’s head with his free hand, still holding the cigarettes in the other and frowning in thought.

 

“John,” Sherlock says when John is almost at the bottom. He’s sitting on the arm of the couch, his feet on the cushion. “Billy and I were just - ”

 

Sherlock abruptly stops speaking when he sees John, his eyes zeroing in on the bag in John’s hand. He stands up on the couch and then hops off and rushes to John, stepping on and over the coffee table in the process. He immediately grabs the cigarettes as soon as he’s in reach.

 

“ _John_ ,” he says, looking at him with a kind of reverence John’s unaccustomed to seeing on Sherlock’s face.

 

“Er,” John says, furrowing his brow, wondering if he should lecture Sherlock on the proper ways in which to use furniture. He decides, though, that it’s the least of his worries, all things considered. “Yes?”

 

“These are from Lestrade.”

 

“You _do_ know him,” John says, relief flooding him.

 

“Of course I do,” Sherlock says. “He’s one of the few people in this world who’s not a complete idiot.”

 

John laughs and rubs a hand over his face, the absurdity of both what happened the night before and Sherlock’s personality washing over him in waves. “Can you – I have no idea what just happened to me,” he says, letting his hands fall by his side again.

 

“Tell me everything,” Sherlock says. He puts his hands on John’s shoulders, the little bag pressed between John’s shoulder and Sherlock’s palm, and stares at him intently. “Start from the beginning and don’t leave a single thing out.”

 

“Okay,” John says, batting Sherlock’s hands away. “Right. But I need coffee first.”

 

“Coffee!” Sherlock exclaims, his arms falling to his sides, and then turns to Billy. “Coffee!”

 

“Yes, coffee,” John says in irritation. “Some of us actually require food and drink to survive.”

 

“Not on, mate,” Billy complains.

 

John sighs. “Right, sorry, Billy,” he says, sparing him a brief glance before going to the kitchen. He makes coffee and isn’t surprised when Sherlock follows him in, bringing Billy along, too.

 

“You can tell me while you make the coffee,” Sherlock says.

 

“No, I really can’t,” John says, heaping coffee grounds into a new filter. “I want to know what just happened, I really do, but give me a minute. I can’t even think straight.”

 

“That’s nothing new,” Sherlock mutters petulantly to Billy.

 

“I can hear you, you know,” John says, pouring some water into the coffee maker and turning it on.

 

“That _is_ something new,” Billy says and then laughs. Sherlock chuckles with him, and John shakes his head, but a smile creeps over his face in spite of himself.

 

Sherlock sets Billy down on the kitchen table and then takes a cigarette out of the little bag as John turns to watch, waiting for his coffee to brew. Sherlock holds it up towards the kitchen light and examines it in the light, then hums in curiosity. He turns it over and inspects it from all angles before bringing it up to his nose and sniffing, closing his eyes as he takes in the smell. John watches in confusion until Sherlock looks up at him, pointing at him with the cigarette.

 

“You’re very lucky, John,” he says. “I haven’t seen Lestrade in ages.”

 

“He says you don’t know his first name,” John says, the memory coming to him unbidden.

 

“Of course I do,” Sherlock says arrogantly. Billy laughs, and Sherlock scowls at him. “It’s Geoffrey.”

 

John laughs, his confusion eclipsed by an unexpected wave of affection for this odd, brilliant man. “It’s not,” John manages to say, still giggling, face turned away from Sherlock.

 

A small smile builds on Sherlock’s face, but he hides it when John turns back towards him, still laughing. “Well, what is it, then?” Sherlock asks. “I don’t know why I’m expected to remember such mundane trivia, anyway.”

 

“It’s not mundane trivia,” John says. “It’s your friend’s name.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “He’s not my friend. He’s my colleague, at best. I don’t have room in my mind for his name.”

 

John shakes his head as he pulls a mug down from the cabinet, but flushes when he thinks that Sherlock knows not just John’s own last name, but also his first and middle. He smiles as he sets the mug down on the counter. “It’s Greg,” he tells Sherlock, glancing over his shoulder. “Greg Lestrade.”

 

“Thank you, John, I’ll endeavor to remember such important information,” Sherlock says dryly. He’s begun impatiently pacing while he waits for John. “Now fulfill your little ritual and pour your coffee and drink it and tell me what happened already.” He waves a flippant hand through the air and occasionally glances at John in impatience.

 

John rolls his eyes but pours his coffee, as he _is_ quite eager to understand the situation. The urgency has passed now that he knows that Sherlock seems pleased that he’s met Greg, though, so he takes his steaming mug and leisurely sits at the kitchen table. Sherlock abruptly stops pacing and sits across from him. He immediately leans forward in his seat and stares at John intently, holding his hands together almost as if he’s praying and resting his chin atop his fingertips.

 

John eyes him skeptically. “I haven’t even had a sip yet,” he says.

 

“Go on, then,” Sherlock says, still staring, and John gives a long-suffering sigh before blowing over the surface of his coffee and taking a sip, trying not to feel uncomfortable under Sherlock’s gaze.

 

“Right,” John says after he’s swallowed the coffee and allowed himself to savor it for a moment. “I went up to the roof. I was wearing my pajamas, _these_ pajamas–”

 

“Weather?” Sherlock interrupts.

  
John spares him an annoyed glance for his impatience. “Clear, not rainy.”

 

Sherlock makes an interested sound in his throat and his brows raise a fraction.

 

“He was standing there smoking a cigarette. I asked him who he was, and he told me he knew you.”

 

“And you _believed_ him?” Sherlock asks, narrowing his eyes at John.

 

“No, I’m not a complete idiot,” John says, taking another sip and giving Sherlock an annoyed look. “I asked for proof. He mentioned Billy.”

 

“Only good things, I hope,” Billy chimes in as Sherlock makes an approving sound to John.

 

“No interruptions, Billy,” he says. “Go on, John.”

 

“Right, ta for your permission,” John says sarcastically. He turns to Billy, ignoring Sherlock for the moment. “He said you’re very sarcastic,” John tells him. Billy harrumphs in a way that John thinks sounds proud, and John turns back to Sherlock, who looks impatient that John made him wait while he talked to Billy.

 

“We just talked a bit, really,” John continues. “He told me you used to chase Mycroft around when you were little and Mycroft made it rain on you.” He grins a little, wishing he could see a picture of Sherlock at that age.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “He _tried_ to make it rain on me,” he corrects. “Don’t listen to Garrison.”

 

“Garrison?” John asks, almost spitting out the sip of coffee he’d just taken. He swallows it hastily. “Are you doing that on purpose?”

 

“Doing _what_ on purpose?” Sherlock asks, so testily that John can’t help but wonder at the fact that he very clearly _isn’t_.

 

“Anyway,” John says after a moment, grinning in amused disbelief while Sherlock continues to look at him askance. “ _Greg_ said he was quitting smoking, and gave me the cigarettes to hold onto for him. We chatted a bit more, nothing important, and then I felt really tired and next thing I knew, I woke up in my bed.”

 

Sherlock leans back, still staring at John in deep scrutiny and holding his hands steepled underneath his chin. John raises an eyebrow and calmly drinks his coffee, waiting for whatever it is Sherlock will say.

 

“It was a good idea to give you the cigarettes,” Sherlock says after a moment. “Beneficial for all of us. Lestrade tries to quit smoking all the time; it’s really best he doesn’t carry them on him. I see the cigarettes and know you’ve actually met him because these particular ones are unique to him, and you have the cigarettes when you wake up and they make you question your experience. Elegant, if a bit obvious, but that’s to be expected with Lestrade.”

 

“Right,” John says. “But how the bloody fuck do I have those cigarettes? It was a dream, right? I never left my bed.”

 

Sherlock smiles wide. “That’s the important question, John, isn’t it?”

 

John sighs, knowing there’s never a straightforward answer with Sherlock. “Yes. So, can you answer it?”

 

“Shall we add it to your wish, then?”

 

John rolls his eyes. “I don’t care,” he says. “Just explain it to me.”

 

Sherlock stares at him a moment longer, and then he finally drops his hands and rests them on the table, lacing his fingers together. He smiles at John, a sincere smile that takes John by surprise. “It wasn’t a dream, John, not exactly. Lestrade really did visit you on the roof, but you didn’t go there. In that sense, you can call it a dream since you never left your bed, but it’s not a dream in the traditional sense since you were actually there with Lestrade.”

 

John sighs. If he’s honest with himself, he never really expected an answer that makes sense when he asked the question. He tries to think of the wording that’s most likely to get him a response he can understand. “If it wasn’t a dream, then what was it?” he finally asks.

 

“You’re very special, John,” Sherlock replies, and John feels something flutter in his stomach. “You may not understand yet exactly why, but you will. Last night was the beginning.”

 

“The beginning of _what_?” John asks, beginning to grow impatient.

 

Sherlock smiles again, and it’s tinged with a sort of melancholy John doesn’t understand. “You’ll see,” he says.

 

John sighs and drains the rest of his coffee. He sets the mug down and frowns, then looks up at Sherlock. “Okay,” he says. “But I still don’t understand. What exactly happened to me last night?”

  
Sherlock beams at him. “You should know, John, you were there,” he says dismissively, and then stands with a flourish of his dressing gown and grabs Billy, heading into the living room with him as Billy complains about rough handling.

 

John gapes after him. “You are such a cock sometimes!” he shouts.

 

Sherlock just laughs, and John can’t help it; despite his anger, the corner of his mouth quirks upward and he shakes his head and gets up to make some toast. As long as Greg isn’t harmful, and he doesn’t appear to be, he supposes he has nothing to worry about.

 

\--

 

The next time John finds himself heading up to the roof in his pajamas, a few days after the first time, he is able to recognize that he’s dreaming, or at least that he’s not awake in the traditional sense of the word. Greg is sitting in the same place as last time, but without a cigarette. Greg looks up at John with a grin, moonlight dancing over his boyish features.

 

“Hey, John,” Greg says.

 

“Hey,” John replies, sitting beside him, looking up at the night sky. The stars are obscured in London, but he can see the moon shining bright overhead, full and round. It makes him think of Sherlock, for some reason. He thinks of all the questions he’s been eager to ask Greg since he met him the first time, questions about Sherlock, but also questions about exactly what’s happening and where they are at this very moment. Now that they’re here on the roof, though, he’s not sure where to start.

 

“You talked to Sherlock about me?” Greg asks before John can begin, interrupting John’s thoughts.

 

“Yeah, I did,” John says, taking his eyes off the sky and turning to Greg. He smiles. “He thought your name was Geoffrey.”

 

Greg chuckles and shakes his head. “’Course he did, the wanker.”

 

“You know him well, huh?”

 

Greg turns to him and the look on his face is knowing. “John, I’ve known Sherlock for as long as I can remember, but I don’t know him even half as well as you do.”

 

John blinks. “What – really?”

 

“Yes, really,” Greg replies. “Sherlock keeps everybody at arm’s length except you.”

 

“And Billy and Mrs. Hudson,” John points out.

 

“Yes, well,” Greg says. He trails off a bit, and then shrugs. “That’s different.”

 

“How?” John asks.

 

“Not my place, mate,” Greg says kindly. “How is he, anyway?”

 

“Sherlock, or Billy?”

 

Greg snorts. “Sherlock. I’m sure that bloody skull is the same as ever.”

 

John grins in agreement. “True enough,” he says. “Sherlock’s good, though. I mean, it’s hard to tell, sometimes, with him, but he hasn’t been playing anything too horrifying on the violin lately, so that’s gotta be a good sign, I guess.”

 

Greg nods thoughtfully. John realizes that even with all the questions he wants to ask Greg, they’re only talking about Sherlock. While there’s infinitely more he wants to ask about him, he tells himself he’s being ridiculous and decides to change the subject and try to get some answers for once. “Why are you here? I mean, what is this, a dream?”

 

Greg looks out at the surrounding buildings and lights, thinking. “It’s not a dream, not really,” he finally says.

 

“But it’s not _not_ a dream?” John asks.

 

Greg quirks a grin. “Right,” he says turning back to John. “If you called it one, you wouldn’t exactly be wrong.”

 

John sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face in frustration. “Then what is it? I mean, I’m sleeping right now, aren’t I?”

 

“Sherlock didn’t explain it to you?” Greg asks. John shakes his head, and Greg nods. “Right. Well, in a way, you’re sleeping,” he says. “You went to bed, and your body is in your bed, but you’re here, too, and so am I, and this is really happening right now, only this isn’t the same roof you think it is.”

 

John is silent for a moment, thinking. “I don’t understand,” he admits.

 

“Sorry, John, but it’s really not my place to explain it any more than that,” Greg says. He looks like he genuinely means his regret, and John nods wearily.

 

“Will I ever figure it out?” he asks.

 

“When His Highness wants you to,” Greg says with a rueful grin.

 

John snorts. “That could be never, knowing him.”

 

“Could very well be,” Greg agrees, his eyes sparkling with laughter.

 

“God, he’s a dick sometimes,” John says. It feels good to say this to someone who knows Sherlock, he realizes, and will be able to commiserate. “This morning, he texted me at least a hundred times while I was at work telling me he had an emergency. I finally rushed home during my lunch and he tells me he left Billy in the basement flat but he can’t go get him himself because it’s getting cold down there and he can’t play the violin with cold fingers. Can you believe that?”

 

Greg huffs a laugh. “Sounds like Sherlock,” he says with a grin. “Did you get the skull for him?”

 

“’Course I did,” John mutters, and Greg laughs. “I did yell at him a lot, though,” he adds.

 

“Sounds like he had it coming,” Greg says.

 

“He did,” John said. “I usually eat lunch with Mary; she works at the clinic, too. We have staggered lunches there so we’re not all gone at once, and Mary and I are always on the same schedule. She must’ve been lonely eating by herself.”

 

Greg looks serious now, and John wonders if he, too, harbors some ill will towards Mary even though he’s never met her. “I’m sure Sherlock had his reasons for you not to be there with her,” Greg says thoughtfully. “Even _he_ wouldn’t call you back just to go pick up Billy.”

 

John frowns. “You think so?”

 

Greg shrugs. “He has reasons for everything.”

 

“He doesn't like Mary. Neither does Mycroft,” John admits. He feels guilty saying this out loud, voicing the doubts that swirl in his mind.

 

“Do you?”

 

“Yeah, I do,” John says. “I used to be interested in her, actually,” he admits. “Romantically,” he specifies.

 

“But not now?” Greg asks. He’s looking at John sharply.

 

John shakes his head, looking ahead and eyeing a rough patch of concrete on the roof to escape Greg’s gaze. “No, not now. It’s not – I like her, I do, but I just don’t think we’d work out.”

 

“Because Sherlock doesn’t like her?” Greg asks.

 

“No,” John says, though he’s not sure if he’s being entirely truthful. “But I don’t get it, to be honest. Maybe there’s something I’m missing, something about her, but she’s never – I don’t understand why he and Mycroft are so put off by her. It seems like she’s a bit…I don’t know, misunderstood.”

 

Greg nods slowly, thinking this over. “Well, that’s alright then, isn’t it? That you see something in her they don’t?” Greg replies with a shrug.

 

“I guess so,” John says. He hesitates, but decides to change the subject. “Anyway, you never answered. Why are you here?”

 

“You complaining?” Greg asks with a laugh, the seriousness of the moment before forgotten. “I’d think you’d want to talk to someone other than Sherlock once in a while.”

 

John smiles. “I’m not complaining,” he says. “Just curious.”

 

“Well, I’ve been damn curious myself, for one thing,” he replies. “Everybody’s talking about you; I had to meet you for myself.”

 

“Why do they talk about me? I’m nobody.”

 

Greg smiles and looks out over the lights of London. “You couldn’t be further from the truth, John,” he says, and then turns to smile at him. “Anyway, I think I’ll be able to help you at some point,” he adds. “I’m not sure how, exactly. I just know it will happen.”

 

“Oh,” John says, confused. “Er, thanks?”

 

Greg laughs. “Thank me when you know why you’re thanking me,” he advises. “Oh, and before I forget, take this,” he adds. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small piece of folded black cloth. John takes it and unfolds it, and sees that it’s a bandana, all black with a white skull on it. He looks at it with a confused frown for a moment, and then looks up at Greg.

 

“What’s this?” he asks.

 

Greg’s grinning and his eyes are sparkling. “Something of Sherlock’s,” he says. “Did you know he wanted to be a pirate when he was young?”

 

John starts to giggle; he can’t help it. “No,” he says.

 

“He did,” Greg confirms, grinning. “He used to wear that bandana on his head and go out to play pirates with Redbeard as his first mate. He must’ve been, I don’t know, six or so? Just a little thing, swimming in the lake and using a stick for a sword.”

 

John giggles and holds the bandana in his hand. He pictures it around a mess of unruly black curls and grins when his giggles taper off. It’s a heady feeling, imagining Sherlock as anything but the composed man he knows now. He finds it terribly endearing, and he suddenly wants to see Sherlock more than anything. He yawns, exhaustion hitting him out of nowhere.

 

“Cheers for this,” John manages, words slurring a bit in his sudden fatigue.

 

“No worries,” Greg says, watching him fondly. “Say hello to Sherlock.”

 

John barely hears his reply before he feels sleep pulling him under.

 

\--

 

When John wakes, he’s holding the black bandana. He smiles when he sees it and stretches out in bed, keeping it safely clutched in his hand. Redbeard gives a sympathetic stretch around his neck, then worms his way up to kiss John’s cheek. John smiles and relaxes back down onto his pillow. He holds his hand out next to his neck and waits for Redbeard to weave between his fingers, and then he drowsily holds him next to the bandana.

 

“Remember this?” he asks him with a smile, his voice a tired croak.

 

Redbeard sniffs the bandana once, then twice, and then starts sniffing it madly, squeaking and burrowing into the fabric, leaving John’s fingers to curl around the hand holding the bandana. John smiles and brings both the bandana and Redbeard closer to himself, watching as Redbeard delights in his memory, his little body twitching as it traverses the familiar black cloth. John feels something clench in his stomach and he feels absurdly lucky for this little view into Sherlock’s world, this little secret glimpse.

 

“Let’s go show it to Himself, then, hmm?” John says to Redbeard, who is still making delighted squeaks. John stifles a yawn and then gets out of bed, pulling Redbeard out of the fabric and holding him in his other hand. Redbeard slithers up his arm and curls around his neck, pleased if the amount of squeaking and kissing he’s doing as John heads downstairs counts for anything. As John gets to the bottom of the stairs, he’s shocked by the pleasant smell that greets him.

 

“Sherlock?” he calls. “Did you make coffee?”

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock calls from the kitchen. “You’ve seen Lestrade again, haven’t you? I’m saving time.”

 

John snorts as he gets to the kitchen. “How’d you know I saw Lestrade?”

 

Sherlock turns to him and rolls his eyes. “Obvious,” he says, but won’t say anything more. John laughs and sits at the table, watching Sherlock with a small smile and amusement in his eyes. Sherlock is standing near the coffeepot, waiting for it to finish dripping, but he narrows his eyes at John’s hand, where just the tiniest bit of black fabric peeks out.

 

“What is that?” Sherlock asks.

 

“Don’t you know already?” John replies, grinning. Redbeard squeaks in agreement from his neck.

 

Sherlock turns his back on John and pours a cup of coffee, then goes to the table but doesn’t sit down. “This coffee for that,” Sherlock says, gesturing towards the bandana with his head and holding the coffee protectively close to his body with two hands.

 

“Promise you’ll give it back to me after you’ve seen it?” John asks, clutching it tightly. He doesn’t know why he wants to keep it so badly, but he really, really does.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Fine, just hand it over,” he says.

 

“On three,” John says, eyeing the coffee. He doesn’t trust that Sherlock will keep his end of the bargain.

 

“Honestly, John,” Sherlock says, but he seems amused.

 

John makes eye contact with Sherlock and holds it steady. “One,” he says, raising an eyebrow in challenge when Sherlock’s eyes dart away for a moment. Sherlock looks back with impatience crossing his features. “Two,” John says, noticing the peculiar mix of blue and green in Sherlock’s eyes when he looks at them so closely. He clears his throat. “Three,” he says, and then he holds out the coveted bandana, their eyes sliding away from each other’s, at the same time that Sherlock sets the coffee down within John’s reach.

 

John takes the coffee and eagerly sips it as Sherlock takes the bandana. The coffee is done perfectly, and he feels as if his entire body melts in relief when he drinks it. Even so, he watches intently as Sherlock unfolds the cloth and then stares at it.

 

“Lestrade gave you this?” Sherlock asks, looking up at John with an unreadable expression.

 

“Yeah,” John says. “He said you used to play pirates with Redbeard.” He smiles; he can’t help it.

 

Sherlock flushes, and John’s smile widens. “I have no idea why he would keep this. It’s old trash, nothing more,” Sherlock says disdainfully. He stands, bandana still in hand, and John hastily sets his coffee down, standing up to intercept him.

 

“Don’t you dare throw that away,” John warns, standing in front of him with his hands on his hips and blocking his path.

 

“Why not?” Sherlock asks petulantly.

 

“We made a deal, for one thing. Also, it’s quite cute, isn’t it?” John says, grinning when Sherlock scowls, the tiniest hint of redness appearing in his cheeks.

 

“It’s not _cute_ ,” Sherlock bites out.

 

“It really, really is,” John says. He holds his hand out, and Sherlock grudgingly puts the bandana in his palm but not without an exaggerated scoff.

 

“Redbeard remembers it, see?” John asks, holding the bandana up towards Redbeard, who immediately snuggles his face against it. John glances up and sees that the corner of Sherlock’s mouth has twitched upward out of his scowl. “Go on, take him,” John says.

 

He tilts his head, baring his throat so Sherlock can get to Redbeard, and Sherlock holds his fingers out next to John’s neck. They’re standing very close together now, and John swallows nervously. He’s sure Sherlock has noticed the movement, and it feels unexpectedly intimate. Redbeard goes to Sherlock’s fingers and John relaxes his neck once it’s free of him, though his pulse has rocketed up and he feels less relaxed than before.

 

He watches as Redbeard winds around Sherlock’s long fingers, and then he makes himself go back to the table, lest he stares longer than he should. He sits down and picks up his coffee again and Sherlock sits opposite him, holding Redbeard in front of his face and watching him closely.

 

“You two must’ve had a lot of fun,” John says.

 

Sherlock doesn’t look away from Redbeard. “We did, didn’t we?” he says pensively. Redbeard squeaks at him in response and John smiles, watching over the rim of his mug.

 

“It’s hard to imagine you any other way than you are now,” John tells him. “I bet you were a cute little bugger, though.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, finally looking away from Redbeard to look at John. “I was never a ‘little bugger,’” he says scornfully, and John snorts a laugh. “Also, I wasn’t the way I am now five minutes ago, was I? And you knew me then.”

 

“I meant when you were a child,” John says pointedly, trying to steer the conversation away from the abstract.

 

Sherlock smiles and holds his hand out towards John, Redbeard draped over his fingers. John automatically reaches out for him, and Redbeard bridges the distance between their hands.

 

“Well, it’s an interesting thought, isn’t it?” Sherlock says as the last of Redbeard slips away from his fingers and curls around John’s. “I was not the same five minutes ago, and neither were you. Everything we do changes who we are. For that matter, John, consider who you were the very first time you stepped into this apartment compared to who you are now. It’s a world of difference, isn’t it?”

 

John rolls his eyes and lets Redbeard scurry up his arm. “Yeah, yeah, world of difference. For you, too; now you actually eat. I’m not sure you even knew you had a refrigerator before I moved in here.”

 

Sherlock smiles, lacing his fingers together and leaning his chin on them. He watches John with a tilted head. “I’d say you’ve changed more than just my eating habits, John. Give yourself some credit.”

 

John flushes, pleased, and hastily drinks his coffee.

 

\--

 

John’s finishing the last of his paperwork after a long shift at the clinic. The afternoon sun floods his office with bright light, and it feels promising somehow. Things have been looking up for him lately, and he’s grateful, though he’s a bit tired due to his increasingly frequent nighttime visits with Greg. He always looks forward to them, though, because Greg continues to provide him rare insights into Sherlock’s life that never fail to intrigue him. He thinks he and Sherlock are growing closer as a result, and on top of that, the spirits haven’t followed him in what feels like forever.

 

He’s just thinking about stopping for some takeaway on the way home when he’s interrupted by a knock on his door. It’s Mary, balancing a large stack of patient files in one arm.

 

“Sorry to bother you,” she says, pushing the door open and nearly over-balancing the files as a result. “I was just gonna go put these away upstairs; are you finished with those?” she asks. She gestures towards the stack of files on his desk with her head, using her free hand to keep her own files in place and holding the door open with her foot.

 

John gives her an amused look, standing up and grabbing the few files he has on his desk as he heads towards the doorway where she stands. “I am,” he confirms. He takes the top half of her stack and piles it on top of his own files. “I’ll help you; you’re about to drop all those if you’re not careful.”

 

“You don’t have to do that!” Mary says. Her tone is just on the edge of frantic and John laughs.

 

“It’s really no big deal,” he says, his voice reassuring as he walks past her. He tries to ignore the way she shrinks away from him. “It’s a lot better than files all over the floor, don’t you think?”

 

Mary smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “When you put it that way…” she says. She’s quiet for a moment and she hesitates, still standing in his doorway, but then she turns and follows him as he heads down the hall. “You’re in a good mood,” she says as she catches up with him.

 

“Yeah, nice to be done with paperwork,” John replies as they head towards the stairwell.

 

“Happy to go home to Sherlock?” Mary inquires, a teasing lilt in her voice.

 

John flushes, hoping she doesn’t notice. “I don’t know about the ‘to Sherlock’ bit, but happy to be going home sounds about right,” he says. They go up the stairs side-by-side, a bit slower than usual since they have tall stacks of paperwork in their hands. “Although Sherlock’s been less obnoxious as usual lately, so there is that,” John adds.

 

“Oh really?” Mary asks. “How so?”

 

John shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “Just…”

 

John trails off, thinking about Mary’s question. He frowns when he realizes he can’t think of any ways in which Sherlock has changed, but only changes in the ways John sees his behavior. _Oh_. “Just different,” he says weakly. He doesn’t want to think about that right now.

 

“Just different?” Mary repeats, amused, her brow arched. John spares her a tight smile and a shrug in response as they reach the top of the stairs. They head to the file room, a large room lined with tall bookcases filled with folders, tabs sticking out to notate where each letter of the alphabet begins.

 

“Let’s get started, yeah?” he says. He holds up the file on top of his stack, a woman whose last name has recently changed due to marriage. “Is she updated in the system yet? Should I file her under Smith or McKinley?”

 

Mary steps forward to look, but she stumbles over an extension cord on the ground. Files slide out of her grasp and land skewed on the floor, and she automatically reaches out for John to steady herself. Her hand wraps tight around his arm and he freezes, his own files falling to the floor as a sudden flash of a dark, cold, horrible, and desolate feeling washes over him. He grimaces, nausea rising in his stomach, and pushes her off his arm, shaking. She backs up, her eyes wide and a hand over her mouth, and he stumbles away from her, his shoulder slamming into the bookcase, and then it falls, though it’s secured to the wall with screws and supports. They snap and it comes crashing down, files tumbling out and the metal shelves sliding out of the structure, crushing him as they plummet to the floor, their jagged edges breaking into the soft skin of his back and trapping him.

 

The last thing he registers is the sound of her frantically shouting his name before the world goes dark.

 

\--

 

John’s not sure where he is, or how he got here. He can’t remember what happened before now, and he’s oddly unconcerned about what will happen next. He looks around himself, but he’s not sure which way to turn; there’s nothing in any direction. He’s surrounded by a strange grey void on all sides.

 

He decides to simply walk in the direction he’s facing, and so he does. His footsteps sound strange and muffled, and he’s shivering. He’s not sure how much time passes while he’s walking, but he hopes he’ll get somewhere soon because wherever he is, it’s freezing. He pauses for a moment, though, and cocks his head to the side. He can hear something: a voice, soft and feminine.

 

He keeps walking, a sense of urgency falling over him as he follows the sound. The voice is familiar, but he can’t place it, and he feels like he has to get to its source as soon as possible. He walks fast, so fast he’s just considering all out running instead, when finally, he sees a woman standing in the distance. His eyes widen at her familiar form and he stops in surprise when he’s a few steps away.

 

“John,” she says. Her eyes are kind and filling with tears. She tilts her head, her dark blonde hair shifting away from her face in an intimately familiar way. Her eyes are blue and he’s well acquainted with them. They settle on him unerringly and she smiles, though her lip quivers. “John, I’m so proud of you; you’ve done so well for yourself, haven’t you?”

 

John just stares at her and his mouth drops open. He clenches and unclenches his hand at his side, his heart beating fast in his chest. “Mum?” he asks, confused. Why is he confused? He’s not sure, but his head is swimming. There’s something wrong with this, he thinks. He’s not supposed to see her.

 

“Yes, Johnny, it’s me,” she says. “I’ve missed you so very much. All I ever wanted was to see you grow up, and look at you now!”

 

Memories slide into his mind, images of her kneeling down in front of him and sweeping his short hair off his forehead, pressing a kiss there, images of her with her hand on her hip as she stirs a saucepot on the stove and grins at him, images of her reading him a picture book. Something swells deep in his heart and he takes a step forward, his eyes wide.

 

“I missed out on so much of your life,” she says. “But I’m here now, aren’t I? Come on, John, come with me. Everything will be fine.”

 

Her voice is soothing, and he swallows nervously, his throat dry. “I – is this – what is this?” he asks. “Where are we?”

 

“You’ve come to be with me,” she tells him, smiling.

 

He wants to reach out, to touch her, to take her hand, but she’s just out of reach. He holds up his arm, his hand shaking, and she holds up hers. If he takes one more step, their fingers will touch. He can already imagine how soft her hands will be, but there’s something inside of him telling him to wait. His fingers tremble.

 

“Come on, John,” she says.

 

“Wait,” he says. He takes a step back and lets his hand fall. “Something’s - ”

 

There’s something – some _one?_ – he thinks he’ll miss if he goes to her. He can’t remember who (yes, who, definitely who), but he can remember vague impressions – the warm scent of smoke, the sound of a deep, velvety laugh, a flash of blue silk fabric – and he urgently wants to see him. He frowns and steps back again.

 

“John,” she repeats. She sounds desperate and takes a step towards him. “John, you have to come with me, _please_.”

 

He shakes his head slowly, frowning, fear beginning to clamor at him.

 

“John,” she says again, pleading. “Please, come on, come with Mummy.”

 

Johns frown deepens. He takes another step back, and then she starts advancing faster, running. John turns on his heel and runs as fast as he can in the other direction, their footsteps muffled in this strange place so that he can’t tell how far away she is. He’s breathing fast, but adrenaline pushes him forward, keeps him running. He needs to get away from her, but there doesn’t seem to be anything else here. He wonders if he’ll be running for eternity.

 

“John!” he hears. It’s a frantic, deep voice and he sees someone up ahead, holding out a hand. The man has silver hair and kind eyes that are narrowed in worry, and John instantly recognizes him: Greg.

 

“John, take my hand!” Greg says, but he can’t move from where he’s standing.

 

“Are you really –”

 

“Yes, I’m Greg, I promise you I’m Greg!”

 

“John, please, I’m your mother! Don’t run from me!”

 

“If you go with her, you’ll die!” Greg says.

 

That familiar voice slides into his mind again. Sherlock, he remembers. _‘You’ll have another opportunity to make a choice. An important one. When it comes, I think you’ll be ready.’_

“Help me,” John says to Greg, suddenly desperate to leave this place. He’s lived without his mother for most of his life; he doesn’t need her now. He doesn’t want to be with her, not here. “Please, Greg.”

 

Greg runs forward as if freed from a spell. He takes John by the hand and yanks, hard, and then John knows no more.

 

\--

 

John wakes slowly and groans. He’s lying in bed, but it’s not his own – Sherlock’s, he realizes. It’s soft and comforting, but he’s exhausted and his throat is dry. He turns his head and cracks his eyes open, squinting against the light, which does nothing to help the way his head pounds. He sees Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed, his body held taut, staring at John.

 

“John,” he says, relief coloring his voice, his posture softening.

 

“Sh’lock,” John croaks. “Thought I – you –”

 

“It’s alright,” Sherlock soothes. “You’re safe now. Do you remember what happened?”

 

John nods, just a small motion of his head. He remembers it well, remembers talking with Mary, remembers her hand on his arm, remembers a strange feeling washing over him, and then the crash of the bookcase. He remembers the darkness after that, his mother, Greg. But he thinks back to the file room, and then he frowns.

 

“Is Mary okay?” he asks.

 

Sherlock looks at him inscrutably and nods, slowly. “Yes,” he says. “In fact, she’s here, just outside the door. Would you like to speak to her?”

 

John nods. He feels confused and vulnerable, but he wants to be sure Mary’s okay. Sherlock stands and John fights the urge to reach out and grab hold of him, to have a minute more with him. He’s the one who said he wants to see Mary, after all, so he lies still as Sherlock goes into the hallway. He listens weakly to muffled voices outside Sherlock’s door before Mary comes inside.

 

She looks like she’s been crying, and she’s walking stiffly, as if she’s in pain. She sits on the edge of the bed, as far from John as possible.

 

“Are you alright?” John asks.

 

“I should be the one asking you that,” she replies. She’s not smiling, but John smiles at her nonetheless.

 

“I asked you first,” he says.

 

Mary’s lips thin to a firm line for a moment, and then she nods stiffly. “I’m fine,” she says. “Do you understand what happened to you today? Did Sherlock tell you?”

 

“Sherlock didn’t tell me anything,” John says, his voice thin and weak.

 

Mary doesn’t reply for a moment. She looks down and twists the bracelet on her wrist, and the bags under her eyes seem exaggerated, somehow. “I’ve been this way since I was a child,” she tells him. “My parents took me to priests and exorcists and psychics, but there’s nothing anyone can do; it’s just how I am.”

 

“ _What’s_ how you are?” John asks when she doesn’t continue speaking.

 

Mary looks up at him. She smiles, but her eyes are sad and glossy. “You’ll hate me if you find out,” she says.

 

“I won’t,” John promises.

 

She looks down again and takes a deep breath. “One time, when I was young, I visited my grandmother. I made her a cup of tea. She choked on it and died. How does someone die choking on tea?” She pauses, still twisting her bracelet and not looking at John. “A few weeks later, I had a new babysitter. She came over to watch me while my parents were out. She died in a car accident on her way home; drove off the road. A few days later, my neighbors got a new dog. I pet him, and he got hit by a car not five minutes later. One time I made a new friend on my street. She was my age, too, and we took a walk together by a river. We held hands, like little girls do, and then as soon as we let go, she fell into the river and drowned. There wasn’t even anything nearby for her to trip on, and the river was hardly deep.”

 

John doesn’t say anything. Mary’s not looking at him, she’s looking at her lap, but she looks up at him suddenly. “Don’t you see, John? I kill people. It’s who I am. Remember Mr. Greenwood from the clinic? With the aneurism? He died because I touched him. I’ve lost count of how many people I’ve killed in my life, John, and even though bad things were happening to you every time we were together, you’re so bloody thick you kept me around anyway.”

 

“You didn’t kill them,” John says. “You didn’t, Mary. It’s not your fault.”

 

“It _is_ my fault,” she says. “This is how I am. I was born this way, and there’s no changing it. I’m bad luck, John. Very bad luck; a death omen of sorts. Even Sherlock says there’s no way to change it, and if anyone could do it, it would be him.”

 

John shakes his head. “But that’s not your fault,” he says. “It must have been hard, growing up like that, believing yourself to be something horrible.”

 

Tears fill Mary’s eyes, and she turns away. “You are the stupidest man I’ve ever met,” she tells him, looking back at him suddenly. “I _am_ horrible. The only reason you lasted as long as you did is because Sherlock found ways to protect you.”

 

“Maybe I am stupid,” John agrees weakly. “But it’s still not your fault, Mary.”

 

Mary stares at him for a moment, her eyes coated by a thin sheen of tears. Her lip quivers but she holds it steady and takes a deep breath. “I’m moving,” she tells him after a moment. “I can’t be here anymore; I’ve ruined enough lives. It’s time to go somewhere new, maybe outside of England.”

 

John frowns. “Where will you go? I’ll miss you, you know.”

 

Mary just stares at him again, a look of disbelief on her face. “You are so fucking stupid,” she tells him again. “How can you tell me you’ll miss me when I almost killed you? Don’t ask me where I’m going.”

 

“Just leave your address with Sherlock. I can at least call you and make sure you’re still alive, right?”

 

Mary twists her hands into the fabric of her trousers and takes a deep, shuddering breath. “You really are an idiot, John. Have a little self preservation,” she tells him. She stands and turns to leave, and when she turns her back to him, John notices bandages peeking out the top of her shirt.

 

“Mary, are you okay? Your back –”

 

“I’m fine,” she says without turning to look at him, and she leaves, closing the door fast behind her. He can hear the muffled sounds of crying through the door.

 

It’s a while before Sherlock comes back in, and John’s almost drifted off to sleep, but he blinks blearily at Sherlock’s form when he sits on the bed, close enough to John that John can feel the heat of his body. John smiles at him. He’s unspeakably glad to see him.

 

“You were very kind to Mary,” Sherlock tells him. “Too kind, in my opinion.”

 

“Figures you were listening,” he says. His smile turns crooked and a bit self-deprecating. “Maybe I _am_ a little stupid,” he adds.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, very seriously. “Sometimes. But everyone is.”

 

John can’t bring himself to be annoyed by Sherlock’s response, not when it’s true. The bedroom is quiet for a moment, neither of them speaking in the dim evening light, but then John frowns, looking up at Sherlock. “But I don’t understand,” he says. “Why is everything in my life so crazy?” He thinks of the spirits, of Sherlock, of the talking skull he considers a friend. He feels frustrated and desperate. “She was the only person I knew who was normal. She wasn’t supposed to – why is she like this?”

 

Sherlock smiles. It’s soft and a bit sad. “Because you chose her, John. You make the world you live in.”

 

John feels a burning behind his eyes. He stubbornly takes a deep breath, willing it to recede. “But I – I don’t want - ”

 

“John, don’t you see? When you met Arthur, you stayed with him even though you knew what was happening to yourself. It’s the same with Mary. She may be kind or funny or whatever it is you _think_ she is, but that’s just it, isn’t it? You saw her as you _wanted_ to see her, not as she was, because you couldn’t see your own _life_ for what it was. She’s not good for you, but you know it now.”

 

Sherlock pauses. He looks away from John for a moment and then looks back, determination on his face. “That doesn’t mean you can’t keep in touch with her, John; you can. Of course you can. But everything about the world you live in is a choice, don’t you see that? And the longer you have Mary in your life, the further you’ll be from living.”

 

John closes his eyes and covers them with one hand. His head hurts, and this conversation isn’t helping, but he knows that Sherlock is right.

 

“Do you want me to keep her address?” Sherlock asks a moment later. “Do you want to choose her? Because make no mistake about this, John. If you keep her address and you contact her, you _are_ choosing her. You know what she is now. There’s no halfway with her; she’s dangerous, especially to you.”

 

John knows the answer to the question with a burning certainty that takes him by surprise. His lip twists, but he holds it firm. He shakes his head, hand still over his eyes.

 

Gently, almost reverently, Sherlock reaches out and takes his hand. He pulls it away from John’s face and sets it down beside him, curling his own long fingers around it.

 

“Do you want to choose her, knowing that if you go near her, you will most likely die?”

 

John curls his own fingers tightly around Sherlock’s. He thinks of holding the handle of a lantern with him, Sherlock’s face lit by its warm and ethereal glow, surrounded by spirits and magic. He thinks of Sherlock turning a red handkerchief into a butterfly and taking him to see Molly, of running through the streets of London with him. He thinks of sitting side by side with him at Angelo’s, of the way he smiles at Redbeard. He doesn’t want to give that up; he _can’t_ give that up. He looks up at Sherlock, determination flooding him. “Throw it away,” he tells him. He breathes harshly through his nose and closes his eyes for a moment, doing his best to keep calm as unexpected emotion rushes through him. “Please, just throw it away.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t move. He stares at John, and then gently, so gently, he swipes his thumb back and forth over John’s hand. “Alright,” he says. His voice is soft and warm. “I will.”

 

John swallows hard, the sensation of Sherlock’s thumb sliding over his hand surprising but welcome, _so_ welcome. It’s soothing, and John lets himself enjoy it for a moment. “What happened to Mary’s back?” he finally asks, remembering the bandages he saw poking out of her shirt.

 

“When you fell –” Sherlock stops and clears his throat, looking away for a moment. It occurs to John that Sherlock may have been worried about him, and he squeezes his hand in what he hopes is reassurance. “When you fell,” Sherlock repeats, “the bookcase holding all the files fell, too. It landed on top of you. The shelves fell out, and the edges were jagged metal. They cut into your back and sliced it open.”

 

John winces at the thought, but his back is pain free. He frowns, unsure. “But –”

 

“Did you know you can only enter this shop if you have a wish?” Sherlock interrupts. “That’s why I told you not to invite Mary here; she had no wish, other than an ungrantable one about her very being, and so she wouldn’t have been able to see this building on Baker Street. To most people, 221B Baker Street doesn’t exist.”

 

John doesn’t know why, but he feels a burning behind his eyes again when he thinks of that, of walking down this street and seeing the buildings on either side of this flat with no 221B gleaming proudly between them, with no violin wafting out the windows, with no Sherlock inside. His heart aches with love for the life he has, for this flat, for the man sitting so close to him.

 

“When you fell, Mary called me immediately,” Sherlock says. “She had a wish, one I could grant.”

 

“What was her wish?” John asks, but his voice cracks. He thinks he has a good idea already.

 

“She wished for me to save you and to heal your back. The cost of her wish was your wounds. She gladly paid it, and so you were given a choice you wouldn’t normally have had. You saw Lestrade, didn’t you?”

 

John squeezes his eyes closed, and Sherlock holds his hand tighter.

 

“I must admit, John, that I’m glad you went with him,” Sherlock says. His voice is soft, and there’s sadness in it that John doesn’t understand. Sherlock pauses, and then continues. “Knowing all of this, John, what do you choose?” Sherlock’s voice is hesitant, and John opens his eyes, looking up at him earnestly. The question is vague, but John feels certainty deep in his heart that he can’t ignore.

 

“This,” he says. “This life. I choose this.” His voice is hoarse but sincere, and Sherlock reaches up with his free hand and gently, so gently, cups the side of John’s face, his eyes never leaving John’s. His fingers press there for a fleeting moment, just long enough for John to lean into the touch and look up at him softly, his heartbeat fast in his throat, before Sherlock pulls his hand away.

 

“You are a marvel, John Watson,” Sherlock says. He smiles, soft and small. “I’m so glad you finally see how important you are.”

 

“Sherlock,” John says, his voice soft. He feels as if he’s begging, but he’s not sure what for. It’s as if a spell is weaving over them as they speak, drawing them to each other, and his heart is beating fast in his chest.

 

“You should rest,” Sherlock says. His eyes are trained on John’s face, as if he’s memorizing it, and John swallows. He’s taken aback by the openness of Sherlock’s expression. Sherlock shifts where he sits, though, and it seems like he’s going to stand up and leave John’s side. John pulls on his hand.

 

“Stay. Please,” he says, eyes locked into Sherlock’s.

 

Sherlock stares at him, and for a moment, he looks as if he’s going to cry, but the moment passes quickly. John squeezes his hand again, gently, tiredness pulling at him.

 

“Just until I fall asleep? Please, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock nods, and his eyes are still trained on John’s face, memorizing him. “Until you fall asleep,” he says, and it’s barely a whisper, echoing in John’s ears as he lets the fuzziness of sleep take over his mind.

 

\--

 

John’s in a tunnel. It’s dark and damp, and he can barely see his hand in front of his face. He frowns; he recognizes, dimly, that this must be a dream, a dream like the ones in which he meets Greg on the roof, but he doesn’t recognize this place.

 

He walks forward, senses on high alert. He thinks he hears Sherlock’s voice, and his brow furrows – why would Sherlock be _here_? He rushes forward and then stops short, his entire body freezing in horror. His eyes widen and he sucks in a startled breath when he sees what’s at the end of the tunnel: Sherlock. His arms are held out to either side of him, and his wrists are bound in thick white strings, as are his ankles, but there’s black smoke surrounding him that prevents John from seeing what the strings connect to. Sherlock holds his head up weakly when John gets close, and he gives John a sad, tired smile.

 

“John,” he says.

 

“Sherlock?” John asks. His heart is pounding and fear is clawing at him, making him break out in a cold sweat. “Sherlock, what – is this a dream?”

 

“‘The present world is dream. Dreams at night are truth.’ Do you remember that, John? From Molly’s house?”

 

John blinks rapidly and swallows, taking a step forward towards Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock. “Sherlock, what –”

 

“No one is exempt from wishing, John, not even me,” Sherlock says. His voice shakes, and the smoke around him is getting thicker, covering his hands where they’re spread on either side of his body.

 

“ _Sherlock_ –”

 

“I made a wish once, a long time ago,” Sherlock continues. His voice is sad, cracking, and his eyes are shiny. “Unfortunately, every wish has a cost.”

 

John shakes his head, horror flooding him as thick, dark smoke spreads over Sherlock’s arms, obscuring them from view. “Sherlock, _no_ , you –”

 

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock says, his voice breaking.

 

“Sherlock!” John says frantically, stepping closer, panic crawling over his skin.

 

“Goodbye, John,” Sherlock says. He smiles at him, sadly, and the smoke grows closer to his face. John reaches out his hand, his fingers trembling. He steps forward once more, closing the distance between them. He’s eager to touch him, to pull him close, to save him from whatever is happening.

 

“No, Sherlock, no, no, _don’t_ –” John says, distantly aware that his face is wet and his voice is breaking. His fingers are so close to Sherlock’s face that he can almost feel the skin underneath his fingertips, but he has one last glimpse of Sherlock, looking at him with a sad, fond smile, his eyes red and wet, before Sherlock disappears in a whirl of smoke, and John is left alone, his fingers grasping nothing but air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, DON'T KILL ME!! The next part will be up within a week, so you won't have to wait long to find out what happens next. There will be two more parts, and then this story will be finished!
> 
> Also, for those of you who are familiar with the xxxHOLiC series, my story progresses quite differently from xxxHOLiC canon from this point onward. The ending of xxxHOLiC left me unsatisfied to say the least, so this story is my way to fix that. I think you'll be surprised (and hopefully pleased) by my version of the ending! :) 
> 
> As usual, I'd love to hear your thoughts! I hope you're enjoying the story, and thank you for reading! <3


	11. Part Eleven

John jolts awake in Sherlock’s bed, his eyes widening and his heart racing as he stares sightlessly at the ceiling. He tries to catch his breath and make sense of what just happened, but it’s not until a moment has passed that suddenly, his mind can catch up with his body. When it does, he frantically sits up and scans the room with fast-moving eyes, and it’s exactly as he feared: Sherlock is no longer by his side. Sherlock’s voice promising him ‘ _until you fall asleep’_ echoes through his mind and he swallows hard, trying to push the memory away and focus on the present. He throws the duvet off of him and gets to his feet, ignoring the dizziness sweeping over him and the pounding of his heart beneath his rib cage, and crosses the room in a few harried strides to pull open the door to the loo so strongly it bangs against the wall. The loo, like the bedroom, is empty.

 

“Sherlock!” he shouts as he rushes to the kitchen, fear clamoring at him, taking over his very being. The kitchen is empty, and so is the living room. The silence of the flat feels eerie and oppressive, and his vision blurs as he runs up the stairs to his room and throws open the door. Again, there’s no one inside. He rushes back downstairs, nearly stumbling over his own feet in his haste.

 

“Billy!” he calls, heading straight to where he sits on the mantle, but there’s no reply. John’s stomach twists and his hands tremble and he feels as if he’s in a tunnel, as if everything is happening in slow motion and yet, paradoxically, as if everything is happening way too fast. He picks up the skull, the bone cool against his hands, and he shakes it hard, knowing how much Billy hates that. “Billy! Billy! Fucking talk to me, goddammit!” he pleads, dread pooling in his stomach, but Billy is silent; he appears to be nothing but a skull, soundless and non-sentient.

 

John swallows a lump in his throat and tries to ignore how fast he’s breathing and the way the entire foundation of his life seems to be turning itself inside out. He holds Billy for a moment and just stares at him with his shoulders rising and falling in fast, panicked breaths, his mouth half-open, and his mind reeling until finally he swallows and sets Billy down gently, as carefully as his shaking hands allow. The sound of Billy’s jaw clicking against the mantle feels loud and abrasive in the empty flat, and John’s chest twists as he stares at the skull who, for once, does not appear to be staring back.

 

He goes to the door where Sherlock’s coat hangs, and for a desperate moment, he wants to gather it in his hands, breathe in the scent, feel the texture beneath his palms – but he can’t. Instead, he scrubs a hand over his face, stares at the coat while a storm of emotions he can’t name gathers in his stomach, and forces himself to keep going. He throws the door open, ignores the sound of the coat rustling against the wood, and runs downstairs to 221A on shaking legs.

 

“Mrs. Hudson!” he calls, pounding on the door. When there’s no immediate response, he opens the door, and rather than the usual warm welcome Mrs. Hudson gives him, he is greeted by silence, foreboding and cruel. His breath turns shaky and fast when he sees that the kitchen is empty, and so is the living room.

 

He hurries to her bedroom, but a chill runs down his spine and his eyes widen in fear as soon as he steps through the doorway. He feels as though his heart has stopped and for a moment he can’t move; he can only stare, trying frantically to process what he sees. Though it feels like hours in his anxious state, it’s really only a split second of hesitation before he rushes to her bed.

 

She’s lying prone on top of her duvet, her eyes closed, still wearing the shoes and dress she’d been wearing during the day. She’s still, _too_ still, and he feels desperation crawling up his throat, eager to manifest into a sob, but he swallows it down. He frantically checks for a pulse, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath when he finds one. It’s faint and slow, but it’s there. She’s breathing, slow and steady, like someone in a very deep sleep, and when he looks closely, he can see the small movement of her chest.

 

John’s hands are trembling, but he manages to shake her shoulder nonetheless, her bones frail under his hands. She doesn’t respond, and he shakes harder. “Mrs. Hudson, please, _please_ , wake up,” he says, begging, his voice cracking, but she doesn’t respond.

 

He’s panicking now, he knows, but he can’t help it. He lightly slaps the side of her face, but she has no reaction. He pries her eyelids open, but her pupils don't even twitch. A desperate sob rises in his throat, but again, he swallows it down. He takes the folded blanket off the end of her bed and carefully, tenderly lays it over her, tucking it around her shoulders, his breath hitching. He stares at her a moment, his palms clammy, his heart pounding, and then he leaves her apartment. He barely sees what’s around him as he goes; the world is spinning and he feels doubtful that his legs will hold him up.

 

Desperately, he wonders ( _hopes_ ) if maybe this is all some kind of trick. He tells himself that Sherlock has just stepped out to run an errand, that he’s just being a dick as usual; that he’s waiting in Speedy’s and this has all been his terrible idea of a joke. John swallows shakily, nods, and goes to the door to the street. He pulls the door open, but just before he’s about to step outside, a hand lands on his chest, pushing him forcefully back in.

 

“John, you cannot leave this apartment if you want to see Sherlock again.”

 

It’s Mycroft, and John is flooded with relief that someone besides him is here and whole, but at the same time, his desperation is peaking and he finds that his confusing emotions are coalescing into a physical, visceral urge to punch him, though he knows it’s irrational. “Where is he?” John demands, his hands clenched at his sides, his voice strangled, his eyes intent. “Dammit, Mycroft, do you know where he is?”

 

“You need to calm down if you want to help him,” Mycroft says with infuriating steadiness. “Let’s go upstairs and I’ll explain.”

 

“Calm down?” John repeats, breathing heavily through his nose, glaring at Mycroft. “How am I supposed to bloody–”

 

He stops abruptly and closes his eyes, forcing himself to take as deep a breath as he can, though his chest tightens and his breath stutters halfway through his inhale. Mycroft’s right; he knows he’s of no use to Sherlock like this, but he doesn't even know if Sherlock’s _alive_ , let alone what’s happened to Billy and Mrs. Hudson. Fear is crawling over him like a thousand little insects and it barely even registers when Mycroft puts a hand on his tense shoulder, leading him up the stairs.

 

“Sit here,” Mycroft says, pushing John down into his armchair. John closes his eyes and attempts to breathe while Mycroft goes down the hall. He tries to calm down, but his brain is spinning in circles and it’s all he can do to just focus on breathing – in and out, in and out, in and out. He looks up when he hears someone clear his throat, and Mycroft is standing in front of him, holding his hand out towards John. Redbeard is wrapped around Mycroft’s fingers, squeaking frantically, alive and whole and well.

 

John’s throat tightens and he holds out a shaking hand. Redbeard immediately curls around it, and the moment John feels the little furry body against his skin, he curls his fingers around Redbeard’s body in return, careful that they’re not too tight, and holds him against his cheek as he feels his lips twist of their own volition. A muffled sob he can’t contain rises in his throat and he closes his eyes and covers his face with his free hand. He hears Mycroft walking away, and he holds Redbeard close to him for a moment and does his best to breathe deeply. Redbeard’s head is soothing against his cheek, reassuring in its familiarity.

 

Thanks to Redbeard’s familiar presence, he feels marginally calmer when Mycroft returns, a cup of tea in his hand. John scrubs his hand over his eyes and takes the tea from Mycroft with a nod of thanks, and Mycroft sits opposite him, in Sherlock’s chair. It makes something ache in John’s chest, but he pushes it away.

 

“Is he dead?” John asks as calmly as he can, his entire body on edge. He’s desperate to both hear the answer and to _not_ hear the answer, so afraid of what it will be.

 

“No,” Mycroft says. “No, he’s not.”

 

John lets out a long, deep breath, relief washing over him in prickly waves of heat. He relaxes his grip on Redbeard and lets him slither up to John’s neck, curling around it protectively, chirping and kissing along the way. John brings his shaking teacup to his lips and takes a sip of tea, feels the warmth sliding down his throat, into his stomach. He sets the teacup down on the table beside him, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, then looks up at Mycroft.

 

“Tell me how I get him back,” he says, determination pooling in his stomach.

 

“The most important thing you can do, John, is stay in this building,” Mycroft says.

 

“Stay in this building?” John says incredulously. “Is he hiding under the kitchen table, then? Hmm? Should I be looking under the bloody _floorboards_?”

 

“I’m sure Sherlock explained to you that to many people, this building doesn’t exist,” Mycroft says, his tone more forceful than before in the face of John’s near-hysteria. “The selective nature of who sees this building and who doesn’t is due to Sherlock’s magic, which built this flat, and also sustains it. With his magic, Sherlock created both the building and everything inside it, including Mrs. Hudson and that ridiculous skull,” Mycroft says.

 

“Billy’s not ridiculous,” John snarls immediately, feeling dangerously protective and worried.

 

“My apologies,” Mycroft says stiffly, giving a slight nod of his head in deference, though his raised eyebrows suggest he’s not sincere.

 

John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath again. He wills himself to be calm as he thinks over what Mycroft said. “Mrs. Hudson and Billy –” He stops and swallows around the lump in his throat. “That’s why they’re – the way they are right now. Because Sherlock’s – not here,” he says, understanding beginning to dawn on him.

 

Mycroft nods. “Yes. Sherlock is currently not in this world. He’s…suspended, if you will. He’s too far away for his magic to sustain Mrs. Hudson and Billy along with the flat itself, and I believe his magic is being restricted as well, which only complicates things further. But because _you_ are in this flat, John, he must sustain it; if you were to leave, I believe the flat would cease to exist because he is so far from this world and in such a weakened state that it’s too taxing on him.”

 

“I don’t understand,” John says. He feels like he’s been saying that a lot recently, and his head is swimming, worry and fear washing over him, threatening to pull him under.

 

“It’s not for me to explain,” Mycroft says. “Sherlock can tell you when you find him.”

 

“Right, of course, no one can ever just bloody _tell_ me anything–”

 

John stops himself before his emotions get the better of him more than they already have. He takes a deep breath again and closes his eyes, focusing on the feel of Redbeard against his neck. After a moment, he opens his eyes again, though he still feels dangerously on edge. He clears his throat. “Right. Okay. How can I find him if I don’t leave?” John’s speaks in a low, measured tone.

 

“If you’re in this building, it can’t disappear because _you_ can’t disappear; it’s physically impossible for Sherlock to kill you,” Mycroft says.

 

John blinks. He doesn’t really understand, but he doesn’t expect to. “Why can’t he kill me?” he asks, his heart aching to find Sherlock even as he tries to figure out what Mycroft is explaining to him.

 

Mycroft shakes his head. “It’s not my place to tell you that.”

 

John sighs and rubs his forehead, grimacing. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He pauses and takes a deep breath, absently rubbing his fingertip over Redbeard’s head. The urge to shout and complain again that no one tells him anything builds deep in his stomach, but his desire to find Sherlock is greater, and so he takes another deep, stuttering breath to calm himself down.

 

“Sherlock’s magic created this house, and Sherlock’s magic sustains it,” Mycroft continues a moment later. “Therefore, the link between Sherlock’s magic and this house cannot disappear while you are inside it because you cannot die by Sherlock’s hand. As a result, Sherlock _must_ be alive in order to keep this house in place and keep you alive inside of it. He cannot die while you’re in this house because he must remain alive to keep _you_ alive. So, essentially, your presence here ensures two things at the same time: that this building and its contents continue to exist and that Sherlock remains alive,” Mycroft says.

 

John closes his eyes. It’s a lot to take in, and he’s having trouble wrapping his brain around it. He tries to understand it for a moment, but gives up, knowing he has more important things to focus on for the time being. “How do I find him if I can’t leave the house?” John finally asks when he feels more in control of himself.

 

“Finally, a productive question,” Mycroft says. “I was beginning to wonder why you’re so important to Sherlock.”

 

“Just answer the question,” John says through clenched teeth.

 

Mycroft smiles a thin smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course, John. The place where Sherlock is currently being held is not in this world. It’s an altogether different one, but one which _you_ are uniquely capable of visiting. I believe his captor is holding him there before transferring him elsewhere.”

 

“A different _world_?” John asks, his brow furrowed.

 

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “You’ve visited one before. When you visited my home, for example, that was a different world than this one is.”

 

John remembers that visit so clearly he can almost feel the water drying on his skin, can see Sherlock turn to smile at him while they’re laying in the grass, can feel the branches crunching under his feet as he runs through the forest with Sherlock. His determination settles further: he needs Sherlock back and he will do whatever it takes.   “Right. Okay,” he says.

 

“If you leave here via Sherlock’s closet, you create a pathway between worlds formed with Sherlock’s magic, which will protect you, this building, and Sherlock himself. Go to the closet and think of Sherlock. Bring Redbeard,” Mycroft says.

 

“But isn’t that – isn’t that leaving the building?” John asks, worried.

 

Mycroft shakes his head. “No,” he says. “If you go out the front door, _then_ you leave this building. Sherlock’s closet, however, is vastly different; when you use it to travel, it creates a link from this building to wherever you go. The closet creates a sort of cross-dimensional pathway using Sherlock’s magic and allows you to pass through. As a result, when you arrive somewhere via this closet, you are still connected to this building as long as the door you pass through doesn’t disappear.”

 

“The door _always_ disappears,” John says, panic flooding him; what if he does something wrong and causes the entire building to vanish?

 

“It won’t when you’re going to Sherlock’s location,” he says. “It’s a place few can visit, and there’s no alternate exit; the door will not disappear.”

 

John doesn’t really understand, but he nods weakly, trusting that Mycroft knows what’s best.

 

“That’s all I can tell you for now,” Mycroft says. He stands, dusting off his trousers. “The rest is up to you.”

 

John stands as well, his jaw clenched and his posture military. “Thank you,” he says.

 

Mycroft nods. “I’ll see myself out,” he says, and then he leaves, gone after a few prim footsteps.

 

John sighs and closes his eyes. He clenches and unclenches his fist and takes a deep breath, then another, and then opens his eyes and nods in determination. He picks up his teacup with a steady hand and swallows down all of its tepid contents before bringing it to the kitchen sink. He stops, though, suddenly gripping the edge of the sink and closing his eyes, turning his head away, when he sees Sherlock’s discarded mug on the counter.

 

“He’ll come back,” John says out loud after a moment has passed in which he barely breathes; he needs to hear the words, have the reassurance. Redbeard squeaks and nuzzles his skin, and John nods. “He will.”

 

He lets go of the sink and takes a piece of bread out of the bag on the counter. He shoves half of it in his mouth, chewing it too fast and doing his best to swallow it quickly; he knows he needs a few calories in his body before he leaves. He finishes it and takes another, and he barely tastes it as he chews, unable to focus on the simple act of eating with so much racing through his mind.

 

He’s terrified, he realizes, and he has no idea how he will get Sherlock back. But deep in his soul, he can feel a strength and determination that he’s never felt before. He knows he’s about to enter a world he knows little to nothing about, but somehow, he trusts that he’s as ready as he can possibly be, and he finds that the benefits of what he’s about to undertake far outweigh the risks.

 

He drinks some water and then takes a deep breath, ready to go. He feels almost like he did when he first got on a flight to Afghanistan. He strides towards the door of the kitchen, but when a flash of black catches his eye, he pauses.

 

Innocently resting atop the kitchen table is the black bandana Greg gave him, the skull and crossbones bright against the dark fabric. He stops to take it without a second thought and holds it tightly in his hands, and then closes his eyes and pleads desperately to whoever and whatever might be listening that he can do this.

 

He opens his eyes after a moment and his mouth sets into a firm line. Carefully, he folds the bandana and shoves it in his pocket. He looks up and heads towards Sherlock’s bedroom, the soldier in him overtaking his stride. He has a mission, and he will damn well complete it.

 

John goes straight to Sherlock’s closet and opens the door. He ignores the immaculate suits and goes to the second door inside, opening it and fearlessly stepping through.

 

As soon as he crosses the threshold, he’s plunged into a cold, mysterious darkness. It’s exactly like he remembers, and it threatens to pull him under for a moment, overwhelming in its intensity. He puts his hand in his pocket, though, and pulls out the handkerchief. He clutches it tightly, and the worn fabric against his skin makes him think of Sherlock. Memories come to him unbidden, pushing the darkness out of his mind.

 

He remembers the first time he came to 221B, the way Sherlock lounged on the couch, smoking his stupid pipe, drawing him in with his strange words. He remembers it so clearly he can almost smell the smoke, and he inhales deeply through his nose, imagining the scent. He remembers walking towards Sherlock, holding his dog tags out, remembers the metallic sound as he dropped the chain and tag in Sherlock’s hand, remembers how he made the mistake of thinking Sherlock didn’t care about people.

 

It seems so long ago now, and more vague thoughts of Sherlock pass through his mind; he thinks of Sherlock’s skin in the moonlight, Sherlock’s eyes crinkling with laughter, Sherlock’s hand wrapped around his. He feels something twisting in his chest and he thinks of Sherlock’s hand against the side of his face, and he stops, takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by how strong his feelings are, letting them wash over him even though it’s terrifying and painful. When he opens his eyes, there’s a door in front of him, looming tall and foreboding in the darkness.

 

The door is a deep, matte black, carved with decorative filigree. At first, the markings look like ivy, but when he looks closer, he can see that there are spiders depicted within it, and he shivers. The door is ominous, but he has no choice.

 

_No_ , he thinks fiercely, remembering Sherlock’s words and feeling his spine straighten. There’s _always_ a choice. And he’s making this choice right now to open this door and find Sherlock because it’s _what he wants_.

 

He nods in determination and reaches out. The doorknob is icy cold, but he turns it nonetheless. The door opens with an ill-omened creak, and he steps through. The door doesn’t disappear this time; it stands tall behind him, and John hopes he can remember where it is when he needs it later.

 

In front of the door are tunnels, and he knows he’s in the right place because they’re just like the tunnels he saw in his dream. He shivers in the cold of this place, and grimaces at the smell; it’s sour, like decaying fruit. It’s unpleasant at best, and John is grateful for Redbeard, who is nuzzling his neck and making him feel more grounded.

 

They walk forward for a while, but the scenery doesn’t change; the tunnel seems endless. He’s not sure how long they’ve been walking, but he’s tired and shaky with adrenaline and tension when they finally come to a crossroads.

 

He looks as best he can down the tunnels to his left and right, but he can’t see anything besides black walls and darkness. It’s the same in front of him, and he has a moment of panic, wondering which way to go. He can see himself getting desperately lost, unable to find Sherlock _or_ the door, dying in these miserable tunnels without even saving Sherlock – when suddenly Redbeard uncurls from his neck. He pokes his head out and cranes it to the left, jerking in that direction quite forcefully.

 

John stares at him for a moment, his heart still beating fast in panic, but feels resolve settle in the base of his spine. “Left, then,” he murmurs, unsure of how Redbeard can possibly know the way, but sure that he trusts the little pipefox’s judgment. “Cheers.”

 

Redbeard responds by settling back in against his neck, pressing a kiss there. John feels optimistic and he goes to the left, but it’s just like it was before: endless darkness.

 

Just when he’s beginning to give up hope, he sees something ahead. He can’t tell what it is, just that it’s not black. It looks grey from here, but as he gets closer, he sees that it’s white, an intricate web of thick white threads. It looks like a spider’s web, and there’s something – some _one_ in the center. With a jolt deep in his stomach, he realizes that it’s Sherlock. He rushes ahead, his footsteps loud in the tunnel, but he doesn’t care; he needs to get to Sherlock _immediately_.

 

The white strands bind Sherlock’s arms and legs tightly, and his head hangs limply in front of him, his curls sagging in limp disarray. John feels fear clamor at him all over again.

 

“Oh, hello Doctor Watson!”

 

The voice is bright and full of a strange, singsong inflection, and John looks in the direction it comes from and sees a man standing to the left of the web. The man steps out of the shadows with a maniacal grin. He’s dressed in a perfect suit, similar to the ones Sherlock wears, but he’s wearing a tie, too, and his hair is slicked back neatly on his head.

 

“I’m so terribly pleased to see you!” the man gushes. “I just knew Sherlock’s little pet would come.”

 

“Who are you?” John asks, his voice low and demanding, focusing all of his fear and worry and determination on this man.

 

“Oh, look at me, forgetting my manners,” he says. He giggles and steps closer to John. “I’m Jim. Jim Moriarty.”

 

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” John asks.

 

Moriarty raises his eyebrows. “Oh, you’re a feisty one, aren’t you? No wonder Sherlock keeps you around; it must be fun. He’s a lot like me, you know.”

 

John feels disgust rise up within him. “He’s _nothing_ like you,” he says. Even though he’s just met this man, he knows it’s true, he _knows_ it with as much certainty as he knows his own name.

 

“Oh, you have such faith in him!” Moriarty says. He claps his hands in delight. “It’s too much, it really is. But we do have something in common, John. Can I call you John? Don’t bother answering; I don’t really care what you think. Anyway, _John_ , Sherlock’s not the only one who can grant wishes.”

 

John feels a shiver run down his spine. He wonders why he didn’t bring a gun, but he doesn’t even know if that would be effective on someone like Moriarty.

 

“Sherlock!” Moriarty calls suddenly, his voice high-pitched and so loud that it echoes through the tunnels. “Wake up now, darling! John’s come to play!”

 

John doesn’t want to take his eyes off of Moriarty, not for a second, but he needs to see Sherlock. He stares at him, and suddenly Moriarty claps, the sound so loud that John jumps, his heart speeding up. Sherlock’s head jerks upward at the sound and he looks around in confusion for a moment before he sees John. His eyes widen and immediately settle on him, and John’s heart speeds up in a mixture of relief and fear. Sherlock looks shocked to see him there.

 

“John,” Sherlock rasps. “John, what are you doing here?”

 

John swallows hard. “Coming to get you, you git,” he says, trying for a sense of normalcy. He wants to run to him, wants to take care of him, and wants to take him home. It’s all wrong; Sherlock’s not supposed to ask him any questions. Sherlock’s supposed to _know_.

 

“You can’t,” Sherlock says, shaking his head. “John, you have to get out of here.”

 

“How touching,” Moriarty interrupts, his voice dripping with boredom.

 

“John, go,” Sherlock says. He sounds desperate and scared, and John’s never heard his voice sound that way. “Just go while you can.”

 

John shakes his head. “I’m not leaving here without you,” John says. His voice is a low growl from between clenched teeth.

 

“Sherlock,” Moriarty interrupts, and then stares at John with a raised eyebrow while he addresses Sherlock. “Tell your little _doctor_ about how you’re not the only wish granter.”

 

Sherlock stares at Moriarty for a moment, disgust on his face, and then he turns to John, his eyes roving over John’s face even in his weakness. “Moriarty grants wishes,” Sherlock says. “But he’s different than I am. My magic is bound by the structure of wishes, but he’s broken that structure and calls what he does wish granting when it’s not. He doesn’t understand the importance of a balanced payment for a wish. He always takes too much, and it’s taken its toll on him. He’s insane, John, just go _, please_.”

 

“Enough!” Moriarty roars, his face twisted in anger and his voice suddenly harsh and demanding, the singsong lilt from earlier gone. He makes a jerking motion with his hand, and the entire web twists, pulling Sherlock’s arms and legs out. He grunts, and John’s hands twitch at his sides. He wants so badly to help, but he hasn't yet figured out how he can.

 

“Why are you keeping him like this?” John asks Moriarty, doing his best to keep his voice as stony as possible even though his heart is pounding and his breath is too fast.

 

Moriarty smiles, the anger gone in a flash. “Oh, Johnny, that’s a good question,” he says. “Sherlock, why don’t you tell him? Don’t leave anything out, now. This may be your last chance, after all.”

 

Sherlock glares at him again, but he turns to John, ignoring Moriarty. “John, do you remember, when we went to see Molly, I told you that it’s taboo to divine your own future?”

 

John nods, wondering why Sherlock is talking about this _now_.

 

“I did, once, and I saw you,” Sherlock said. “I saw your life, and I _knew_ that you were put on earth for me.” Sherlock swallows, and John feels sweat on his palms, feels his heart beating faster. “But I saw your loneliness, and I saw how little you cared to live. I saw you come to me, just like you did a few months ago, but it was different. You walked away from me, from my shop, and it was like the very fabric of the universe ripped. You were – you were different from anyone who had ever walked this earth, John, but you didn’t know it. You left and you gave up, and I had to change that. I couldn’t risk you not understanding how important you are, but I couldn’t grant my own wish, and I was desperate – once I saw you, I knew I couldn’t let anything happen to you. I needed you to live, so I came to Moriarty. He’s the only one who could grant my wish.”

 

John’s hands are tight fists at his sides. There are emotions and thoughts and sensations swirling in his stomach that he doesn’t know what to do with. He swallows hard, takes a deep breath. “What was your wish?” he asks, his voice neutral.

 

“I wished that you would understand how important you are, and want to live in this world rather than fade away, like you would have done if we never met or you never stayed with me. I wished that you would live.”

 

John closes his eyes and takes a trembling breath. He remembers lying in bed only the day before, Sherlock asking him what his choice is, Sherlock’s hand on his face, Sherlock looking at him with such a sad smile. Sherlock was saying goodbye. Sherlock was deciding this for him.

 

“And the cost?” John asks, voice still neutral.

 

“When my wish was fulfilled, my presence in this world would be traded for yours,” Sherlock says. His voice is low, soft.

 

John shakes his head. “No,” he says. He breathes through his nose, tightens his fists. “ _No_ , Sherlock, you don’t get to – you don’t get to do that, you _don’t_ , you’re the one who told me how important my choices are – I choose _you_ , Sherlock, you don’t get to _do_ this –”

 

“My wish is for you to live,” Sherlock says. His voice is soft, but firm. “I can’t take that back.”

 

John wants to punch him. He wants to punch him and kick him and beat the bloody daylights out of him. But more than that, he wants to grab him, hold him as close as he can, hug him so tight neither of them can breathe, bury his face in Sherlock’s neck, wind his fingers through his hair. The feeling is visceral, burning through his veins. He stares at Sherlock, trapped in this madman’s web, and he takes a step closer, wondering if he can somehow cut the strings.

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t move if I were you,” Moriarty calls. John had somehow forgotten he was there, so wrapped up was he in Sherlock’s story. “That was touching, by the way,” he adds. “Truly.”

 

John glances at him, and Moriarty grins widely and then winks, holding his hands in front of his face. He starts to move them in a complicated gesture that looks something like knitting without needles, and thread, the same as the strands of the web, appears between his fingers. As he weaves the strands in his hand, John watches in horror as the web around Sherlock starts to grow thicker, the strands multiplying. His heart starts to pound, and he reaches out to grab the web, but he’s startled suddenly when Redbeard leaps off his neck.

 

John turns in confusion as Redbeard jumps, and just as he realizes he should grab him, lest he fall on the dark, cold floor from such a tall height, Redbeard changes. It happens in the blink of an eye; one moment, Redbeard is a small, furry, snake-like creature; the next, he’s a tall, majestic fox, a long, plumed tail rising proudly behind him. He’s so big that he comes up to John’s shoulder, and he stands in front of John defensively, growling at Moriarty.

 

“Oooh, how exciting!” Moriarty says. He grins widely and winks at John, but John can only stare at Redbeard, confusion washing over him.

 

Redbeard digs his front paws into the ground and his body tenses. He sucks in a deep breath, and when he opens his mouth, be breathes fire, a brilliant red fire that makes John’s eyes widen and his jaw drop when he tries to reconcile the little pipefox with this creature. He watches as Redbeard’s fire dissolves the web in Moriarty’s hands, but leaves Moriarty’s skin intact.

 

Moriarty raises an eyebrow. “Impressive!” he says. “Nice pet, John. But Sherlock will still disappear!” He says it in that same singsong inflection, and John wants to punch him.

 

John looks towards the web and sees that Sherlock is indeed more entrenched by the web than he was a moment ago. Panic rises within him.

 

“I’ll leave you three alone,” Moriarty says. “This is all so fun, but I have some preparations to make. Enjoy yourselves!” Moriarty laughs, a high-pitched, menacing sound, and then he disappears, and John immediately turns towards the web.

 

“John, don’t touch it,” Sherlock says, but John touches it anyway, eager to make his way to Sherlock. The web sticks to him, though, and the more he fights it, the more entangled he gets.

 

“Fuck!” John says, his heart beating fast. He’s panicking in his haste to get to Sherlock, but he can’t help it. Redbeard breathes in and then John watches in horror as a wall of fire washes over his arm. He’s sure he’s about to die or at the very least lose a limb to severe burns, but the web disintegrates, falling away from his arm, and his skin remains cool and untouched. He stares for a moment, and then turns to Redbeard.

 

“Redbeard, please, help him,” he begs, realizing that Redbeard could be the key to saving Sherlock.

 

Redbeard breathes fire over and over again, eliminating as much of the web as he can, and John keeps his eyes on Sherlock, who is staring at him with wide eyes.

 

“John,” Sherlock pleads. “Just go. You can’t do anything now. Please, just go.”

 

“I’m not leaving you, you arse!” John says, determination fierce in his voice. “I’m not leaving here without you!”

 

Redbeard burns away more of the web, and finally, _finally_ , John can step forward enough that Sherlock is within his reach.

 

He reaches out, his hand trembling, and lays it on the side of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock closes his eyes, his wrists and feet still bound, and turns his head towards John’s hand. He exhales, and it’s warm against John’s palm. A tear leaks from Sherlock’s eye and it drips into the crevices between John’s fingers and John wants to trap it there, keep it forever.

 

“Sherlock,” he says, voice soft. “Sherlock, we’ll get –”

 

John sucks in a breath when Sherlock suddenly jerks backwards, his eyes flying open and his face ripped away from John’s hand. John’s hand twitches at the sudden loss and the moisture drips away, and John watches as the entire web disappears, Sherlock and all, to be replaced by nothing but darkness.

 

His heart is pounding in his ears and he’s staring, gaping at the blank space in front of him. Redbeard makes a miserable howling sound beside him, and John’s stomach turns. He can still feel Sherlock’s breath against his palm, can still feel a soft curl brushing his finger. He’s horrified, his heart pounding, his eyes wide.

 

There’s a sound beside him and he turns. Moriarty is standing there, grinning. He looks like a child on Christmas.

 

“He’s mine now, John! Sorry! Go on home now with your little fox!” Moriarty laughs, and John rushes forward, ready to attack him, hatred burning in his stomach, when Moriarty suddenly vanishes. John stops short just before he smashes into the wall, and he’s _furious_ , his hands shaking, his heart beating fast.

 

“Fuck!” John shouts, anger boiling inside of him, frustration and loss and disappointment and fear crawling over him. He wants to break something, kill something, rip something into tiny pieces, he wants to shout and rage and scream, he wants _Sherlock_.

 

But none of those things can help him, and he’s left standing alone, his hands balled into tight fists, his eyes closed, his heart in his throat, bereft. Redbeard nudges him with his long snout, and John buries his hand in his ruff for a moment and leans his head on top of Redbeard’s, keeping his eyes closed. His heart is still pounding, but Redbeard’s presence helps, somehow, and he focuses on the feeling of his fur around him. He’s not sure what to do next, how to find Sherlock again, but Redbeard makes a whining sound and cranes his head towards the way they came, so John follows him.

 

John loses his sense of time; the only thing he can focus on is the way Sherlock looked at him, Sherlock’s words, Sherlock’s stupid sodding wish, _Sherlock_. His heart is pounding, and before he knows it, he’s back at the door, feeling hopeless and alone.

 

He stares at the door miserably, and Redbeard nudges his hand, urging him to open it. John’s not sure what to do, though; he has no idea where Sherlock is, and he can’t help but think maybe he’s still here somewhere, somewhere else in this maze of tunnels. He shivers in the cold and looks around him, debating whether or not he should stay, but Redbeard forcefully nudges him, making him stumble forward a step.

 

“He’s not here, then?” John asks him. Redbeard nuzzles against John’s side, worming his way between John’s arm and ribs, making a soft huffing sound. John brings his hand up and strokes Redbeard’s head, grateful to have him there.

 

“I didn’t know you could do this,” John tells him. Redbeard presses closer to him, and John gets the distinct impression he’d curl around John’s neck if he could, despite his size. “Thank you,” John murmurs, closing his eyes.

 

Redbeard doesn’t reply, of course, but he does press his face close to John for one second longer, and then he steps away, going to the door and scratching it with one elegant paw, looking at John imploringly.

 

“Right,” John says. “Let’s go.”

 

They go through the door again and end up in the mysterious darkness of Sherlock’s closet. John feels relief flood over him; the cloying smell of the tunnels is rendered much stronger in its blissful absence. He’s not sure where to go, but he thinks the most fruitful way forward will probably be to think of Sherlock and find a new door.

 

He sighs, his shoulders sagging. He tries to think of Sherlock, but he’s distracted, hopelessly so, by Moriarty, by the web Sherlock was trapped in, by the look on Sherlock’s face before he disappeared, by _everything_.

 

He stops and scrubs a hand over his face, squeezing his eyes closed and taking a deep breath. Redbeard presses against his side, and John focuses on his breathing again, in and out in and out, and tries desperately to focus his thoughts.

 

After a moment, he begins walking again. It’s silent in this strange place, and John, with an aching heart, imagines the sound of Sherlock’s violin. He manages a small smile as he keeps walking, thinking of Sherlock playing, his long fingers sliding over the strings.

 

But then he thinks of those long fingers on his face, and then he thinks of his own hand on Sherlock’s, and then he imagines Sherlock looking at him in shock and being jerked backwards into darkness, and something deep in his chest twists.

 

He doesn’t know how to find Sherlock, and he doesn’t know what to do when he finds him. How is he supposed to fight for Sherlock when he has no magic and no understanding of what Moriarty does? How is he supposed to help Sherlock when he has no idea where he is?

 

He feels hopeless, but he is still determined to find him. There is no way he will give up, even if it means he spends the rest of his life searching. If Sherlock wants him to live, he will, but not at the expense of Sherlock’s life.

 

He allows himself the indulgence of thinking about the very first time he’d sat with Sherlock on the roof. In hindsight, he can see how very enchanted by Sherlock he was (and still is), and he remembers it fondly, remembering their closeness, the hushed atmosphere, and the magical quality of the evening. He longs for it down to his very bones, and abruptly, he remembers Moriarty again, his singsong voice and mercurial attitude.

 

And suddenly, he’s _angry_ , livid that someone would dare take Sherlock away from him when he means so much to him, livid that Sherlock would make that wish to begin with, livid that his time with Sherlock is cut short. He’s so angry that he doesn’t even notice that his body is clenching up in frustration, or that suddenly, a large puddle the size of a small pond has appeared in front of him.

 

He takes a step and then flails when his foot lands in water and begins to sink. He reaches out for Redbeard and holds him tight, and together they fall, sinking into soothing, warm water.

 

They surface a moment later, and John sputters, his hair flattened to his head in sopping wet clumps, his arm wrapped around an equally wet (and therefore much diminished in size) Redbeard. John looks around him and his eyes widen when he realizes where he is; he’s in the lake he’d come to with Sherlock when they got Redbeard. He’s near Mycroft’s house, then, he knows. There’s no sign of him, though, and John startles when he sees a familiar woman sitting on a large rock beside the lake.

 

“John!” she says, surprised to see him. “Oh, and your fox – he’s magnificent, isn’t he?”

 

John treads water and closes his eyes. He tries to relax, but the woman sitting on the rock near him is the same one who stole Sherlock’s soul because she wanted a present from John. He remembers that day very well, especially the anger he felt because Sherlock would treat his life so frivolously.

 

“Are you alright?” the woman on the rock asks, and John opens his eyes to see that she’s leaning forward on the rock, staring at him intently.

 

The concern evident in the tilt of her eyebrows and softness of her mouth is so strong that John feels compelled to look away for a moment, holding his lips firm and breathing through his nose and doing his best to keep his emotions in check. He’s not far from the shore, and so he ignores her for a moment, swimming the short distance with Redbeard while she climbs down from the rock. Once he’s on land, he wrings his shirt out as best he can with his unsteady and wet hands while Redbeard gives himself a mighty shake, water spraying everywhere.

 

“John? Are you alright?” the woman repeats, hesitant but gentle.

 

John doesn’t look at her; instead, he keeps his eyes absently on Redbeard, watching him but not really taking him in. “I don’t know,” he says, clenching and unclenching his left hand, looking anywhere but at her concerned face. “It’s – Sherlock is –” He pauses, something in his chest twisting, making it hard to speak. “He’s gone,” he finally says. It’s so different to say the words out loud than to think them; it makes all of this _real_ , somehow, and he does his best to keep himself together.

 

“Gone?” she repeats, her voice high and surprised.

 

John nods. “He – someone has him.” He sucks in a breath; it feels like his chest is constricting, like he can’t breathe. “I have to find him,” he says desperately, feeling his eyes burn. “I don’t know – I don’t know how, I can’t –”

 

She reaches out suddenly and takes his hands, her own hands soft and warm. “Please don’t cry, John,” she says.

 

John remembers last time they met suddenly, and he manages a wet laugh. “I’m not,” he insists. “You don’t need to be upset.”

 

She shakes her head and drops his hands. “You are. Come with me and I’ll help you,” she says. He’s tired, and though he’s not sure how she can help, it’s a better chance than he has on his own, so he follows her, Redbeard glued to his side. He’s already nearly dry, and he wishes Sherlock were here, laying on the grass with him while their clothes dry instead. He tangles his hand into Redbeard’s damp fur as they walk, doing his best to stay focused.

 

Her house is very close to the lake; they go through a short, neatly kept path in the forest, and then there is a small cottage up ahead surrounded by rosebushes in many colors.

 

“Come on in,” she tells him when they reach the door. She pulls it open for him and he goes inside with Redbeard. It’s cozy inside; her walls lined with paintings of flowers, her large windows filling the small house with the bright afternoon sun. She gestures John towards her overstuffed floral print couch, and John gratefully sinks into its cushions while Redbeard sits on the floor beside him, resting his head on John’s knee.

 

“I think you should have some tea,” she tells him as she lights a fire in the fireplace across from the couch. “I’ll make some.”

 

“I don’t have time for tea,” John says. Despite the comfort of the couch, he starts to stand again, but Redbeard growls, pressing his pointy snout into John’s thigh and forcing him back down. “I have to find Sherlock!” John says, looking at Redbeard in something like betrayal.

 

“Of course you do,” the woman says. Her voice is soothing. “You’ll find him, I know you will. But you need to rest for a little while. You’re of no use to him like this.”

 

_Like what?_ John wants to ask, but he knows that he is on edge and frazzled, out of his element and worried. “But he could be anywhere,” John protests. “I have to find him. I don’t have time to waste; he could be hurt –”

 

She steps forward and leans down in front of him. She covers his hand with hers. “If you want to find him, you need to relax,” she tells him. “There’s something only you can do, but you haven’t yet realized what it is. Drink some tea, and think about why you want to find him.”

 

“How will thinking help me?” he asks desperately. “He’s not – he could be _anywhere_ , and I need –”

 

“How did you get here?” she interrupts, her voice soft.

 

John frowns. “I was – oh. I was thinking about Moriarty, and I was mad, and then suddenly I was here.”

 

She nods and stands. “Sometimes, there’s a lot you can do with your thoughts,” she tells him. She goes to her small kitchen, leaving John alone. John stares at the fire and tries to let go of the hopelessness of the situation and instead focus on her suggestion. He knows he’s dealing with a world he knows next to nothing about, and it’s part of what’s making him feel so hopeless in the first place; Sherlock’s with an enemy John doesn’t know how to fight, in a place John doesn’t know how to find, bound by rules John doesn’t know. He can’t just charge in and fight, but of course, neither can he run away, and he’s not sure what remains in between those two options for him to do.

 

The woman comes back with a cup of tea, and John feels suddenly appreciative of her. “Thank you. I don’t even know your name,” he says.

 

She smiles at him, and it’s warm and pleased. “Zosima,” she says. “It means lively.”

 

He smiles, taking the cup from her. “That’s a lovely name,” he tells her. The teacup shakes in his hand, and he hastily takes a sip. He feels something inside of him settle, and he thinks maybe she was right; he needs a break, just to get his head on straight, before he goes back out to find Sherlock.

 

“I’ll help you relax,” she says. “Drink your tea, and think about why you want to find Sherlock.”

 

John takes another sip of tea and watches while she goes to the far corner of her living room. There’s a large object with a sheet over it, and she pulls off the sheet to reveal a harp. John boggles at this and watches as she carefully folds the sheet and sets it down beside the harp, then sits behind it, reaching her arms up. She glances up and then blushes when she sees him watching her.

 

“Please don’t look while I play,” she says.

 

John blinks, thinking she’s one of the oddest people he’s ever met even if she is very kind. “Right, sorry,” he says. He turns back to the fire and sips his tea, pointedly not looking at her, marveling at the oddity of his life. After a little while, enough time for him to have already finished half of his cup, she begins to play.

 

The music is soft and soothing. He hasn’t heard anything like it before, but it’s beautiful. He takes another sip of his tea, and then sets the cup on the table beside the couch.

 

He closes his eyes and tries to focus on his breathing. He breathes in and out, slowly, his breaths lining up with the slow tempo of the music.   He starts to think about Sherlock. Rather than just think of memories, he decides instead to think about _why_ he wants to find Sherlock. The reason seems so simple to him – _because he’s Sherlock_! _–_ but it’s really much more complicated.

 

He thinks of the way every time Sherlock speaks, it’s like everything in the world except him ceases to exist. He thinks of Sherlock’s voice, warm like honey, caressing his ears. He thinks of the way Sherlock looks at him sometimes, his eyes crinkled at the corners, his smile soft and small, and his eyes dancing with pleasure. He thinks of the way his own heart twists in his chest when he sees Sherlock, thinks of the way it feels to stand close to him, the way each and every one of his cells seems to come alive.

 

The sound of the harp seems distant, and he’s barely aware of the cottage. The only thing he can think of is Sherlock. He imagines the warm twist of pleasure he feels when Sherlock is nearby. He imagines it so clearly that he feels it now, a fluttering in his stomach and twisting in his chest. He imagines the feel of Sherlock’s hand in his, his fingers long and reassuring. He imagines standing in front of Sherlock, so close that their breath mingles in the space between them, and he imagines reaching up, cupping Sherlock’s face, feeling Sherlock’s curls slide between his fingers. He imagines the way his breathing would quicken, the way his pulse would speed up. He imagines the way his breath would hitch, the way he would tilt his head. He longs for it so badly that he feels like his body’s on fire. He imagines leaning closer, shifting his hand to Sherlock’s neck, sliding it through his curls until he can take him by the back of his neck and pull his head down to meet his.

 

He imagines Sherlock’s mouth just centimeters from his own, poised to meet his, and it feels so _cruel_ suddenly that a stab of intense longing shoots through him. He wants Sherlock back more than he’s wanted anything in his life. It’s so unfair, he thinks, that he’s just learned to appreciate his life and the man who taught him how, the very same man he longs to share it with, is gone.

 

And suddenly, just like that, he feels a jolt deep inside of him, and he stumbles, blinking in confusion and disorientation. He’s standing, nowhere near a couch or a fire, and he’s not in a cottage, and there is no harp. He’s on the roof of 221B, and he thinks this must be a dream again, that he’ll meet Greg here. He steps forward, though, and his jaw drops when he sees the person in front of him.

“Sherlock,” John gasps, his eyes wide.

 

Sherlock turns at the sound of John’s voice, startled. He’s wearing his long wool coat, and his hair is in perfect order. John feels emotion rise up inside of him and he desperately clamps it down.

 

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock says, awe coloring his voice. His eyes are wide as he stares at John, and John steps towards him, feeling like his body is moving of its own volition. John doesn’t hesitate when he reaches him; he wraps his arms around him and clutches him, burying his face in Sherlock’s coat, breathing him in. Sherlock is still, surprised, for just a fraction of a second before he eagerly reciprocates, holding John close, pressing his face in John’s hair.

 

After a moment, John pulls away, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand. “Sherlock,” he says. “How are we – is this really you?”

 

“It is and it isn’t,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t let go of John.

 

John shakes his head, his nostrils flaring. “No, Sherlock, you don’t get to do that now,” he says, his frustration overriding his relief. “You – you fucking _prick_ , I’ve been searching and I don’t even know how to find you – please, Sherlock, you have to explain this to me.”

 

“There’s nothing you can do to help me,” Sherlock tells him. His voice is gentle. “Maybe we’ll be able to meet like this again sometime, but I have to pay for my wish. It’s easiest for all of us if you just let me disappear.” His voice is soft and his eyes are trained on John’s. There’s something in them, a bleakness, that John doesn’t like.

 

John takes a step back, forcing Sherlock’s arms off his back. “Like hell you have to pay,” he says. “You already told me that bastard takes more than he should for a wish.”

 

“But I agreed to the price,” Sherlock says. “I won’t do anything to risk your life.”

 

John’s lips settle into a firm line, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “You - you’re the one who told me how important it is to live,” he says. “And now you do this? How _dare_ you, Sherlock. If I can’t give up on my life, you can’t either. _You_ taught me that, you dick.”

 

“It’s the _universe_ , John! There’s nothing I can do!   We have to obey the laws of magic or it will be worse than it is now.”

 

“Oh yeah?” John says, angry. “Well, how about this, then? You’re the bloody wish granter, aren’t you? I have a wish for you, Sherlock. I wish that once I get you away from this fucking crazy bastard, you come back to me, and we will be together until we are grey and old and you bloody die of natural causes, not this fucking wish, do you hear me? So, grant my bloody wish, you cock!”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widen as John’s words hang in the air between them and he stares at John, who’s too angry to be nervous about the words he just spoke. “ _John_ ,” Sherlock finally says. “John, you – do you realize –”

 

“Yes, I bloody well _realize_ , you prick. I need you to get the fuck out of wherever you are and come with me, so if you would start bloody explaining things, that would really help,” John says, seething.

 

They stare at each other for a moment, the air charged between them. John is panting in anger, leaning forward slightly, looking up at Sherlock through narrowed eyes, and Sherlock is staring at him in rapt attentiveness until suddenly, John looks away, his lip twitching, and then they’re giggling. Everything catches up to them and they’re overcome by laughter, their postures relaxing, their faces shifting into mirth, both of them laughing so hard they’re wiping tears from their eyes. Sherlock steps close to John and cups his cheek with his hand, then leans his head down and rests his forehead against John’s for just a moment as the last of their laughter leaves them. “John,” he murmurs. “It will be my privilege to grant your wonderfully clever wish, but first you need to save me.”

 

“I wasn’t being clever,” John says. He means to sound petulant, but it comes out soft instead.

 

“You may not have meant to,” Sherlock says. “But you were.”

 

John closes his eyes and brings his hand up to Sherlock’s neck. He lets his fingers twist into the curls there, and his heart clenches. “Tell me what to do,” he says. “Please, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock steps back and his hands fall to his side again, but then, after just a moment of hesitation, he takes John’s hand and pulls him over to the little ledge where John always sat with Greg. He sits, and John sits beside him.

 

“I can’t grant your wish until Moriarty is gone,” Sherlock says. His hand is warm around John’s. “I can’t kill him, but you can.”

 

“But I can’t –”

 

“John, Moriarty can’t kill you, for the same reason _I_ can’t kill you,” Sherlock says.

 

“Why?” John asks.

 

“My wish was for you to live, and I’m currently paying for it, so it can’t be broken. Wishes aren’t like ill-fitting clothes, John. Once they’re granted and paid for, that’s that. You can’t return them,” Sherlock says. “I can’t kill you because I wished for your life. Moriarty can’t kill you because he received payment for my wish. You can still die, but not by my hand or his directly.”

 

“Then how can I free you?” John asks.

 

Sherlock smiles at him. It’s a small, soft smile, and John’s heart skips a beat. “The cost of my wish was my life, but more specifically, it was my presence in your world. Moriarty took it; he removed me from your world. That doesn’t mean I can’t be brought back. _He_ can’t bring me back, of course, and there are very few people in this world that could. Fortunately, your wish is very strong and very clever.”

 

John can’t help it; he giggles again. He turns away from Sherlock, laughter overtaking him, until he’s wiping at his eyes again. When he turns back, Sherlock is still smiling at him.

 

“Sorry,” John says. “That’s just – _semantics_.”

 

“They’re important,” Sherlock says softly. He’s still looking at John like he’s a treasure, and John looks away, pleased.

 

Sherlock suddenly stands up and begins pacing, holding his hands behind his back. “I don’t know how much time we have here, John, and we’ve used a lot already,” Sherlock says. “The first time we met, I told you that your name and birthday combined with your birthmark created a pathway for spirits to find you.”

 

“Would you stop pacing?” John says. “You’re making me dizzy.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and stops abruptly. “The pathway exists in both directions,” Sherlock tells him, still standing.

 

“I don’t understand,” John says.

 

“When we first met, ill-intentioned spirits were taking advantage of your strong connection to the spirit world to prey on you,” he says. “The reason the spirits have been currently bothering you less is not because they have decreased in number, but because you’ve learned the value of your life, and so they no longer see you as easy prey. In turn, they bother you less, and the connection you have to other realms is less taxed, opening it up to more productive uses, such as Lestrade’s visits.”

 

John frowns, thinking about it. “I was easy prey?” he asks.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “You didn’t understand the connection you had to the other realms, and you’d never had any truly positive experiences with spirits or anything relating to magic. As such, you feared the connection. Spirits saw you as a powerful being with which they could connect, but who feared them rather than support them. As such, they wanted to devour you and keep your considerable power for themselves. Now, they can sense that you won’t go so easily.”

 

John frowns. “Okay. But how does that help us?”

 

Sherlock sits beside him. “What we’re doing now is using that connection. It’s astral projection, John. My body is with Moriarty, and I’m unconscious. As such, I’m dreaming, and you used your connection to the other planes to find me and visit me in my dreams. While the spirits could always use the connection to find you, you’re now learning to manipulate the connection from your side.”

 

“Okay,” John says. “That makes sense, I guess. But why was Greg dreaming of our roof?”

 

Sherlock shakes his head. “He wasn’t. He’s dead, so his ability to connect to you is different from mine,” he says. “He must have sensed the change in the strength of your connection to other worlds and waited for you here, in a place familiar to you. Perhaps I’m subconsciously doing that; astral projection is not my specialty, but I do have abilities to manipulate the dimensions.”

 

“Wait, Lestrade’s dead?” John asks, brow furrowed.

 

“Yes, he has been for a long time. I’ll explain when this is over,” Sherlock says. “We don’t have time now. You need to use your connection to fight Moriarty and kill him. When he’s dead, he will no longer have the power to contain me or my magic, and there will be no need for him to; he forcibly took me from your world. It’s not a continuous transaction. It happens once. He took my life, and he never specified that he would take me away and _keep_ me; he’s too arrogant to realize he’d have to. If he’s alive, then he can manipulate the terms as much as he desires, but upon his death, that clause disappears. Without your wish, I’d have no way to return, but your wish allows it. So, John, fight Moriarty. Kill him.”

 

John rubs his forehead, trying to keep track of all of this and having difficulty. “How? I don’t even have a weapon,” he finally says.

 

“Command the spirits,” Sherlock tells him, his voice intent.

 

John’s eyes widen and he stares at Sherlock in disbelief, but Sherlock is watching him very seriously.

 

“Sherlock, I can’t –”

 

“You _can_ , John. The fact that you came here proves it. You are in charge of your connection to the spirit world, even if you’re still figuring out how to use it. How did you get here?”

 

John frowns. “I thought about why I wanted to find you,” he says.

 

Sherlock nods. “Exactly. You manipulated the connection. Find Moriarty. I think you’re close; I can’t be sure, but if you’ve connected to me astrally this early in your exploration of the connection, our physical bodies must not be far from each other. Where are you?”

 

“I’m at Zosima’s house,” John says.

 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow in surprise, and John shrugs.

 

“Explain later,” Sherlock says. “You’re close. Have you told her I’m with Moriarty?”

 

“No,” John says, feeling stupid that he didn't think of it sooner.

 

“Tell her when you return to your body. She’ll know where to find him, and you won’t have to waste your energy on it. You’ll cross the forest on the way, the one we crossed on the way to Mycroft’s. It’s a different section of the forest, but it’s similar. Do you remember the way it felt in the woods, John?”

 

John shudders and nods; he remembers it well.

 

“It’s worse on the way to Moriarty’s, but you can’t fear it, John. When you are in the forest, you must get the spirits on your side. Call to them. Focus on why you need their help, and your appreciation of them.”

 

“Appreciation?” John asks.

 

Sherlock nods. “Think of the good things they’ve given you,” he advises. “Get them on your side. When you’re in Moriarty’s presence, set them on him. This part is crucial, John, because while Moriarty can’t kill you, other forces can.”

 

John nods, but with a feeling of dread, he notices that his limbs are beginning to feel heavy. “Sherlock,” he says, urgency creeping into his tone. He’s not ready to go, not yet.

 

Sherlock stares at him and then sits beside him. He looks like he wants to reach out for John, but he hesitates, unsure.

 

“You are a treasure, John Watson,” he murmurs. “Don’t forget it.”

 

John reaches up with clumsy hands to pull at Sherlock’s arms. Somehow, he manages to get Sherlock’s arms around him, and he collides into Sherlock’s chest, breathing in his familiar scent as sleep pulls him under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more after this! Thanks so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it - I know there was a lot of info to digest in this chapter, and I hope it was palatable. I was (am!) very worried about it all making sense. So I'd really appreciate your thoughts on that! More things will be clarified next chapter, which should be up within a week. :)


	12. Part Twelve

John sees the fire in front of him, hears the soft sounds of the harp, and feels Redbeard’s head, heavy on his knee. Logically, he knows these experiences are happening to _him_ , but it feels as if he’s watching them happen to someone else from far away. He feels strange, as if his very being is slowly filling his body back up again. Though he’s travelled astrally before, he’s never done so while he’s awake, and returning to his body is a peculiar experience.

 

Gradually, though, the sensory input starts to make sense and feel like it belongs to him. He takes a deep breath, in and out, and then another, and relishes the certainty that these are _his_ lungs expanding; this is _his_ body. He decides to try moving his hand and it twitches on his knee. Its swift and expected response is reassuring, and finally, he feels as if he belongs in this body on this sofa again. He lifts his hand, lets it fall on Redbeard’s head, scratches him gently, and feels his delicate bones beneath his fingers, allowing the familiar feeling to ground him in this reality.

 

The harp’s music is calm and relaxing, and as he comes back to himself, it becomes more and more difficult to ignore. He turns to look at Zosima’s fingers delicately dance over the strings, but she glances up and catches him looking. Abruptly, she stops, and a clash of surprised dissonance fills the cabin as her cheeks flame red.

 

“Sorry,” John says awkwardly, fighting back an amused smile. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

 

She shakes her head and looks away, clearly embarrassed, but then turns back to him. “Have you figured out what to do?” she asks after a moment, ignoring her red cheeks and discomfiture. “You were gone for a while.”

 

“Yes, I have,” John replies, the seriousness of his situation settling over him once again. He pauses and tries to make himself look as reassuring as he can, knowing that her reactions tend to be strange and unpredictable. “You’ve been a huge help. Could I ask you for one more favor?”

 

She nods, her eyes wide. “Of course,” she says. “I want to help you.”

 

“I need to find Moriarty,” he says.

 

Her eyes widen, and she covers her mouth with trembling hands, too shocked to speak.

 

He swallows, steeling himself to remain reassuring and not react too strongly to her obvious distress. “Are you –” He clears his throat, tells himself to be patient, reminds himself that talking to her can often be like talking to a child. “Do you know where to find him?”

 

She takes her hands away from her mouth and hesitates for a moment, looking away and biting her lip as her fingers twist into her long skirt. After a moment she stands and walks over to him, her shoulders drawn up with worry. “It’s very dangerous,” she tells him as she sits beside him. “I hope you understand when I tell you that I can’t help you. You’ll die.”

 

John feels despair twisting inside of him; he’s so close to saving Sherlock, and yet there’s nothing he can do without Zosima’s help. “Please,” he says, his voice steady and low. He stares at her intently. “I need to find him. I know it’s dangerous, but I have to go.”

 

She’s silent for a moment. “Mor – _he’s_ the one who has Sherlock?” she asks.

 

John nods, determination clear in the tense set of his shoulders and grim line of his jaw. “Yes,” he says, “and I _need_ to get him back. Please, Zosima. I know how to kill Moriarty. I just have to find him.”

 

She shakes her head and her eyes fill with tears. “I don’t want you to die,” she tells him.

 

“I won’t,” he tells her. His words are carefully measured, but the loud breaths he takes through his nose betray his anxiety. “But if I don’t get him back, I may as well.”

 

“You’re very brave,” she tells him after a moment of staring at him in clear scrutiny. She smiles, though it’s a bit teary. “Sherlock is your most precious treasure, isn’t he?”

 

John’s heart twists in desperation. “Yes,” he chokes. “Yes, he is. Please, Zosima, I have to find him. Please help me.”

 

She looks down at her lap for a moment and bites her lip. Her eyes drift to her harp, and then she looks back up at him. “I understand,” she says. “No one should be without their most precious treasure.”

 

John nods, hope flooding him. “Please,” he says again.

 

“I’ll take you,” she says. “But I can’t go all the way to his house. I’ll give you directions when I have to turn back.”

 

“That’s fine,” John says, relief hitting him like a brick wall. He swallows, his hands suddenly shaking. “That’s – that’s perfect. Thank you.”

 

“You’re much stronger now than you were before,” she says.   “So you might make it through the forest.” She smiles at him as if that’s reassuring, and John feels fear coiling in his stomach. Sherlock believes in him, though, and so John forces the fear down, pushing it aside. He doesn’t have time to be afraid; he needs to focus.

 

“It’s not far from here,” Zosima continues. “But it’s nearly impossible to pass through the forest around Moriarty’s den. If I go in too far, all of the energy just leaves my body; it’s the strangest feeling.”

 

“Sorry, what?” John asks, his anxiety increasing even as he tries to push it away.

 

“I’ve only gone there once before,” she explains. “It was an accident, to be honest. I didn’t realize – it was a long time ago, when Moriarty first came here. I entered the forest, and it was horrible; it was cold and miserable and I thought I was going to die. I fainted, and I don’t remember what happened after that, but somehow I woke up here a few days later, sick and…unwell.” She’s wringing her hands and not looking at John, and John swallows shakily. He feels queasy, but he needs to focus.

 

“That sounds horrible,” he says, words measured, “but I know how to get through.” He makes his voice as strong as he can, focusing on Redbeard’s presence at his side and the determination that still swells strong in his gut rather than the fear that threatens to override it. He stands, and Redbeard follows.

 

“If anyone can do it, it’s probably you,” Zosima admits. She looks up at him and offers him a smile, though it’s weak. “Are you ready, then?” she asks.

 

John nods, determined. “Yes,” he says, pushing the fear aside, focusing on his need to get Sherlock back.

 

“Alright,” she says, though her voice is soft. She stands up and hesitates, looking at him as if she’s going to speak, but instead she gives him a watery smile and then turns away.

 

Grateful for her assistance, John follows her to the door, and together, they leave her cabin. The sounds of the door snicking closed and their footsteps on the stone path seem louder than usual; John’s adrenaline is already heightened. They follow the path back to where the lake lies, calm and placid in the afternoon sun. John relishes the sharp sounds of insects buzzing through the air, focuses on the sensation of a warm breeze ruffling his hair. Across the clearing, he sees the spot where he’d gone with Sherlock to arrive at Mycroft’s house, but they don’t go that way. Instead, they head past the lake and walk through the soft grass without talking, following the edge of the forest.

 

“You have to enter the forest at the southernmost point to get to him,” Zosima says, breaking their silence and interrupting John’s thoughts. “I’ll show you where, but I won’t go in.”

 

John nods. “That’s fine,” he says. Because of his adrenaline, he feels as if his voice is coming from far away, as if time has become distorted, as if it was years ago that he’d seen Sherlock on the roof, but he does his best to focus. “I understand,” he adds. “What do I do once I’m in the forest?”

 

“Go straight,” she tells him. “Or, as straight as you can around the trees, at least. You may see paths to the left or right, but don’t take them; you’ll just get lost. Go straight and walk for a minute or two, and you’ll come out at…at _his_ house.”

 

“Only a minute or two?” John asks, brow furrowed. “He’s really not far, then.” His body is already thrumming in anticipation, and he begins to wonder if this is going to be easier than he thought.

 

She shakes her head. “It’s only a few minutes, but it feels different in there,” she tells him. “It’s…it’s horrible, really.” She shivers, and John feels his worry grow stronger again.

 

“But you’ll be able to do it for Sherlock,” she adds, a rare note of confidence in her voice. He turns to her and she offers him a small smile. “No matter what happens, just remember that he’ll be on the other side.”

 

John nods, his shoulders stiff, wondering what exactly lies ahead of him. They reach the edge of the forest, and he stares, a chill already settling over him as his eyes sweep over the dark cluster of dying trees ahead of him.

 

He turns to her, and she looks like she’s about to cry. “Hey,” he says. “Don't cry, alright? Thank you. I really appreciate all you’ve done. I’ll be fine, thanks to you.”

 

She nods, sniffing and wiping at her eyes. “Be strong, John Watson. Find your most precious treasure.”

 

“I will,” he tells her. He’s anxious to go through the forest and find Sherlock, but he knows that as soon as he leaves her side, there’s no turning back. He doesn’t know what’s waiting for him, but then, he really hasn’t since he moved in with Sherlock in the first place, so it’s not as frightening as he thinks it should be. He takes a deep breath, lets his posture settle into military preparedness, and rests his hand on Redbeard’s long, proud neck.

 

“Thank you, Zosima,” he repeats. “I’ll see you again.”

 

“Goodbye, John,” she says, her voice choked, and he turns abruptly and steps into the forest.

 

As soon as they’re inside, the sounds he’d been hyper-aware of only moments before disappear into a blanket of silence. There’s no more gentle breeze, no more birds chirping or rustling grass; there is only bleak, all-encompassing silence. It’s cold, too, so cold that John already feels goose bumps breaking out on his skin. Redbeard nudges him, and John nods. _Only a few minutes_ , he tells himself. He takes a step forward, and then another, moving cautiously. His steps are loud, dry branches crackling under his feet, and he can hear his heartbeat thumping in his hears.

 

It’s dark in the forest, and as his eyes slowly adjust, he can see that tall trees surround him and Redbeard, none of which are in bloom, but which have enough empty branches to shroud them from the sunlight with a thick web of dead limbs overhead. There are so many trees that it’s difficult to make a straight path, but John does his best, aided by Redbeard, who seems to know instinctively which way to go. John’s head begins to throb as the cold intensifies, and he can see his breath blooming white in front of his face.

 

He starts to hear voices, low and indistinct, voices that he knows belong to spirits. He remembers distantly that he’s supposed to be thinking of his appreciation for them, and so he thinks of the nectar he drank, of how delicious it tasted, and how magical that evening was when he’d gone to the parade of spirits with Sherlock. He tries not to think of the spirits trying to eat him, and instead thinks of them clearing a path for him and Sherlock to reach the great tree. He desperately pushes the fearful thoughts that rise up inside of him away, forces them out of his mind, but they keep distracting him.

 

The disembodied voices are growing more urgent, and the fearful thoughts in his mind seem to multiply. He doesn’t think he can do this; focusing his thoughts while he’s sitting in Zosima’s cottage or alone in Sherlock’s closet is one thing, but here, with spirits surrounding him and a sense of foreboding danger crawling over him, it’s something entirely different.

 

Redbeard whinges at his side and presses close to him, his body strong and warm, but the fear is creeping over John again no matter how much he tries to bury it; his entire body is trembling. The spirits are closing in on him, to the point that they are beginning to become corporeal. John freezes when he feels a sharp pain on his face. He reaches up, his hand shaking, and feels his heart beat faster when his fingers come away wet. He knows it’s blood, his own, coming from a slash across his cheek. He blinks rapidly, trying to push down the panic rising fast inside of him as the slash on his face begins to sting.

 

The spirits haven’t even touched him yet, and he’s already bleeding and terrified. He’s angry with himself for failing so quickly; he’s sure the spirits are about to do him in, and he’s overwhelmed with cold, thick fear, tendrils of air that feel like fingers pressing against his skin – when suddenly Redbeard steps hard on his foot, growling up at him.

 

John blinks at him, his heart pounding, and feels desperation wash over him. He needs to find Sherlock, he remembers, and there’s blood dripping into his collar and cold panic gripping him. His head is pounding and he feels nauseous, sure he will throw up at any moment. Terror is clawing at his insides, and the fear of losing Sherlock is real and tangible when suddenly, almost hysterically, he realizes that he’s going about this all wrong.

 

Sherlock told him to be appreciative of the spirits, and instead, he’s using all of his energy to fight the fear they instill in him, the same fear he’s been with his entire life. He realizes in a moment of startling clarity, though, that without these spirits, these same damn things that are making his head ache and his skin bleed, he wouldn’t be here at all; he never would have met Sherlock in the first place, nor would he have met Angelo, or his son, or Molly, or Mrs. Hudson, or Billy, or Arthur, or Greg, or any of the friends he’s met along the way. He never would have tasted the sweet nectar from the spirit procession, but more importantly, he never would have tasted it _with Sherlock,_ never would have felt that warm intimacy, never would have done _so many things_.

 

John stands stock still, heedless of the spirits around him, and realizes that the root of what brought him everything he holds so dear in his life is the very fear he’s working so hard to bury. He suddenly feels genuinely appreciative of the fear that’s coursing through his veins, the fear he’s been trying to push away. Fear brought Sherlock to him, and through fear, he has found acceptance, wonder, joy – he thinks of the way he feels at home in 221B like he’s never felt anywhere else, the way he marvels at the beautiful things Sherlock shows him, the way the two of them laugh together even when they shouldn’t, and he smiles at the absurdity of having these thoughts in the middle of this doomed forest, but he realizes that fear has given him _love_ , love for Sherlock, love for the world he lives in, and for the first time, love for himself.

 

His heart is pounding, blood coursing through his veins. He opens his eyes and his breath still comes in white puffs in front of his face, his skin is still covered in goose bumps, there’s still sticky blood pooling in his collar, it’s still freezing cold, but he is filled with a gratitude he can’t shake, a gratitude that changes the way he sees everything around him. His heart clenches in his chest, his stomach flutters. He doesn’t normally give thoughts of this nature any attention, but he realizes suddenly that they’re _important_ , that they’re the key he needs to save Sherlock.

 

“Thank you,” he whispers, tamping down the doubts inside of him that say this might not work. He’s scared, yes, but he clings to that and he’s even grateful for it because it means he’s doing something meaningful, something that’s so important to him he’s reduced to a terrified mess in the face of it. He clears his throat, knowing he needs to speak more clearly.

 

“Thank you,” he repeats, voice stronger even though it’s choked. “All of you. You’ve given me so much, and all this time, I’ve been running from you because I didn’t understand it.” He pauses and tilts his head, aware somehow that his consciousness is altered, expanding to the beings in the forest. It’s a strange feeling, and his heart is beating fast.

 

“He’s trapped you all here, hasn’t he?” John says. The low murmur of spirits’ voices is getting stronger, but they’re listening to him, he can feel it. “He’s trapped my –” He pauses and swallows, thinking of Zosima and her kindness. “He’s trapped my most precious treasure, too. I can help you out of the forest. It’s the least I can do; I owe my life to all of you. But please, _please_ come with me once we’ve reached the other side. I may not be one of you, but I walk among you. You’ve been with me my entire life, only I’ve been too stupid to realize how important you are.”

 

He stops talking and takes a deep breath, squeezing his hands into fists, the feel of his nails biting into his palms reassuring somehow. He can still hear the voices of spirits around him, too low and indistinct to make out their words, but he can feel a sense of grudging acceptance in his mind, a feeling he knows is not his. He swallows hard, his hands shaking, and takes a step forward. The forest seems to shift around him, and Redbeard stays close, lending him support.

 

He keeps moving, sweat trickling down the sides of his face. He shivers; his head is pounding, and this is hard work, but he’ll do it for Sherlock.   He feels elation building up inside him; the spirits are with him, moving with him through the forest. They’re not corporeal, not yet, but they’re _there_ , he knows it. The cut on his cheek is still bleeding, and he feels another on his leg, just above his knee. The blood is soaking into his trousers, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t even know if the spirits will help him when they leave the forest, but he knows he’s doing all he can, and that’s enough for now.

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs again. “All of you. Thank you.”

 

He knows that some of these spirits are very negative, evil even, but it’s not his place to judge them; it’s his place to communicate with them, he realizes. And he can understand, when he thinks about it, why they’d become so negative, having been feared and isolated for so long. He can relate to them, he thinks, and his heart twists in a pang of sympathy. He thinks of Sherlock again, and he holds onto all the fears he has, tangles his fingers into Redbeard’s fur, and forces himself to walk through the forest, though the air feels heavy and his nausea only keeps growing.

 

When they get to the edge, John’s limbs feel like lead weights and they shake with exhaustion. He feels dehydrated and cold and sick, but he can see the bright light of the sun up ahead filtering through the thinning layer of trees, and he swallows, his throat raw like sandpaper, hope flaring in his chest. He closes his eyes, reaching out in his mind to feel the tenuous connection to the hundreds of spirits of the forest.

 

“Please,” he says, voice rough. “I owe everything to you, and after this, I’ll be in your debt. But please, _please_ help me. I know it’s probably scary to leave the forest after all this time, but it will be worth it, I promise it will.”

 

He doesn’t know where these reassurances are coming from, but they seem like the right thing to say, and he takes a deep breath before taking the final step out of the forest, squinting against the bright light of day. His head is pounding and the sun doesn’t help, so he takes a moment to let his eyes adjust before he looks around.

 

Moriarty’s house, if it can be called one, is up ahead. It looks more like a fortress; it’s made of large gray stones, with a tall black door adorning the front, just like the one John had gone through to find the tunnels. John takes a deep breath and stands as tall as he can, his shoulders and back straight, and marches up to the door. He can feel that the spirits are with him, surrounding him on all sides, and for the first time in his life, he welcomes them; their presence brings him such heady relief that his heart feels too big for his body and he worries the emotion will overcome him.

 

He stands outside the door for a moment, gathering his resolve, and then reaches out with a steady hand. Before he can turn the knob, though, the door swings open, making the same ominous creaking sound John had heard in the tunnels.

 

John enters without hesitation, his heart beating quickly in his chest at the knowledge that Sherlock is nearby. He’s surrounded by darkness as soon as he steps through the doorway, but he walks on nonetheless. He’s in a long hallway lined with sconces, each one holding a single lit candle. They cast eerie shadows along the walls, but John knows there’s nothing lurking in the shadows that could be any worse than the very beings traveling alongside him. He walks along Moriarty’s blood-red carpet, unsure of his destination, but knowing he’s doing the right thing.

 

The spirits’ presence is strong, and he tries to send gratitude to them through his mind, but he’s not sure they can feel it. His head is full of sharp, acute pain, so much pain that he feels dizzy and weak, but he doesn’t care; he needs to do this.

 

When he reaches the end of the hallway, there is a single wooden door. He stares at it for a moment, and when Redbeard’s head nudges his hand, he nods. Hand steady, he reaches out and opens the door. As he steps through it, he sees Moriarty, sitting on a throne-like chair in the center of a cavernous room. The floor is made of black and white marble tiles, and a large chandelier hangs from the ceiling; it is a desolate parody of a ballroom, eerie and depressing, especially since there is no sign of Sherlock.

 

“John!” Moriarty says, his eyes wide in delight as his voice echoes through the room. “You found me! And, oh, you’ve brought _friends_ , haven’t you?”

 

“Where’s Sherlock?” John asks, his voice cold, ignoring Moriarty’s greeting.

 

“Oh, you’re so _predictable_ , John. Always so worried about him.” He smiles and shrugs, waving a flippant hand through the air. “But you’re too late! He’s gone!”

 

John shakes his head. “No,” he says. “He’s not.”

 

“You _are_ an interesting one, aren’t you, Johnny? So _confident_.” Moriarty pauses, drumming his fingers along the arm of his chair as he stares at John with a small, smug smile. “Have you liked this little game so far? I can’t imagine why Sherlock has been so obsessed with you for so long, but it _has_ been fun watching the two of you dance. Did you like how I gave you a few little glimpses of him in the tunnels, just to make it all that much more heartbreaking when you realized the truth of it all? It’s so _tragic_ , isn’t it?”

 

John stares at him, anger boiling in his stomach. “There is nothing _fun_ about this,” he tells him. Redbeard growls beside him, and John can feel the spirits shifting around him, ready to act.

 

“There really is, though,” Moriarty says. He reclines in his chair, watching John with a crooked smile and narrowed eyes. “You’ve come here for nothing. He’s gone.”

 

“He’s _not_ ,” John says.

 

“No?” Moriarty asks. He laughs. “When you came to this world, your connection to 221B Baker Street dissolved, and we both know that was the only thing keeping Sherlock alive. Sorry, Johnny, he’s gone.”

 

John shakes his head and swallows shakily. “No,” he says. It’s impossible, isn’t it? He saw Sherlock, after all, met him on the roof. On the _astral plane_ , Sherlock had said. Sherlock told him he was alive, and he wouldn’t lie, not to John, would he? But John feels it, a sliver of doubt creeping into his heart; John had met Greg on the roof, too, and Greg is dead.

 

John feels fear churning in his stomach, fear he can’t welcome. Terror wells inside of him and he realizes that Moriarty may be telling the truth. There had been no door, had there? He’d come through the lake. Does that count as a connection to Sherlock’s closet?

 

“Oh, you see it now, Johnny, don’t you?” Moriarty asks, in his horrible singsong voice. “You’ll never get him back. All this work for nothing, and in the end, you’ll both be dead.”

 

Something snaps inside John and he stands up taller, swallowing against the desolation inside him. He has nothing to lose now, he thinks, and no time to grieve. The only way he can fight is to do what Sherlock gave it all up for. Grief is lurking on the edge of his consciousness, but he won’t give in to it.

 

“I won’t die,” John says, his voice low but intense. No matter what happens, he can’t let Moriarty win; he _can’t_. Sherlock is too important for that. 221B may be gone, Sherlock may be gone, but John will stop at nothing to protect Sherlock. He won’t let this man take that from him.

 

“Do you think you’re strong?” Moriarty asks him, condescension dripping from his lazy drawl. “You’ve brought the spirits here, but do you really think they’ll obey you? They’re spirits, John; they’re demons and ghosts and terrible creatures. They have no _loyalty_. I can give them things you never will; I can give them people to torment, games to play, whatever they want. Do you really think they’d come in here and attack _me_?”

 

His words cause another flicker of doubt in John, but he realizes that he has something Moriarty doesn’t: his connection to the spirits. He can feel their anger at his words, their hatred of this man who has kept them in the forest for so long, and at the same time, he can feel their hesitance to attack him when they know he can give them things they desire.

 

“I don’t want them to _obey_ me,” John snarls, ignoring the pounding in his head and the confusion of the spirits. “I’m thankful for them and I appreciate them, and I asked them to help me. It’s up to them if they do. But I’d like to give them the choice to make on their own, thanks, rather than manipulating them for my own needs.”

 

“Aren’t you manipulating them now?” Moriarty asks, laughing.

 

John’s vision blurs for a moment, and he feels dizzy. The pain in his head is overwhelming in its intensity, but he forces himself to stay focused, imagining Sherlock, remembering why he’s here. “No,” he says. “Of course not.” He speaks confidently, but he feels himself growing weaker; he knows he can’t hold onto the connection for much longer.

 

Moriarty stands from his throne and steps forward. Redbeard immediately moves in front of John, leaning back on his haunches and growling, but Moriarty ignores him and makes eye contact with John. John doesn’t dare look away.  

 

When Moriarty speaks, his voice is loud, deeper than John has heard it. “I call upon you, the spirits of this forest, _my_ forest, and I command you –” He pauses, his serious expression morphing into a grin as he winks at John before almost instantly, as if the moment never happened at all, his face turns thunderous again, save for the spark of sadistic merriment in his eyes, which never leave John’s. “Attack this man!”

 

John’s eyes widen for a moment when Moriarty’s finger points straight at John’s chest and he feels a surge of energy from the spirits. They’re coming towards him, and he wonders if this is it, if they’re going to attack him. Redbeard growls, and John squeezes his eyes closed. He’s shivering, freezing cold and nauseous, and he panics when he feels pressure on his shoulders, trying to force him down to the ground. He knows the spirits are confused; they’re used to obeying Moriarty, used to responding to the strongest presence in the room. He remembers what Sherlock told him, though, that the spirits preyed on him because he was weak and couldn’t control the power he so clearly had. He needs to prove to them once and for all he’s strong.

 

He locks his knees and forces his back straight. He thinks of Arthur and his love for him, thinks of Greg and how much he looks forward to their visits. He thinks of how lucky and grateful he felt when he could stand under the beautiful warmth of the nectar tree, surrounded by thousands of the very beings that are about to attack him. He thinks of Angelo’s, of giving the protective arrow to Angelo’s son, of watching Angelo’s son stand up for him in front of thousands of spirits.

 

He’s distantly aware that the spirits are drawing closer to him, and he realizes that he must trust Sherlock if he wants to succeed. Sherlock told him he was strong and powerful, told him he can do this, and apparently everyone has known this for a long time – the spirits have always known it, Sherlock has always known it – John’s the only one who hasn’t believed it. He suddenly opens his eyes, a wave of concentrated energy and power washing over him as he lets himself fully trust what Sherlock has told him, fully believe in Sherlock’s words, fully believe in _Sherlock_ , and in turn, fully believe in himself. The advance of the spirits stops almost as suddenly as it began, and he can feel them focusing on him, connected to him once more, prepared to listen to him now that they see the command he has over his strength.

 

“Now,” John says, his voice strong and deep. He stares at Moriarty, who is staring back at John in fascination, with uncertainty in his eyes that John’s unaccustomed to seeing. “Get him,” John commands. There is certainty deep inside of him that they’ll obey, certainty born of the strings of fate that have been working long before he was even born, since Sherlock made the wish that would change their lives forever.

 

John feels it when the spirits obey; he feels the shift in the air around him, he feels the chill of spirits rushing through his body in their haste to get to Moriarty, he feels the pain in his head intensifying, like he’s being split open with icepicks and jackhammers, he feels like his skin is on _fire_ , he feels blood on his face. His knees buckle and he hears a groan he knows must have come from him as he collapses, Redbeard nosing at him, sniffing him and licking him and trying to help him. The last thing he sees before he loses consciousness is a blurry face he thinks belongs to Mycroft.

 

\--

 

The first thing John notices when he wakes is that the pillow beneath his head is soft, much softer than his own. He stretches, his muscles sore and cramping, and luxuriates in the feel of the equally soft duvet over his body. He keeps his eyes closed, too tired to open them, and sighs at the feeling of a little tiny furry head tickling the underside of his chin. Lazily, he brings his hand up and strokes the little head –

 

And then he sits up in a panic, his fingers tightening around Redbeard’s tiny body. He holds the little pipefox out in front of his face, blinking at him as Redbeard just chirps curiously, his tail sliding back and forth over John’s wrist. John gulps in air and looks around him, his heart pounding in his ears when he realizes that he’s in Sherlock’s bedroom.

 

He wonders if he’s dreaming; is he astrally projecting? Or, perhaps, had the past few days never happened at all? Has everything since Mary touched him and he hit the bookcase been some kind of dream?

 

His heart is thumping fast and he can barely breathe. He squeezes his eyes closed and lets Redbeard slither back up to his neck, and he fists his hands in the duvet pooled at his waist. Redbeard had been big, and now he’s small…had that happened? John wonders if he’s crazy.

 

His eyes suddenly fly open and he holds himself perfectly still when he hears a thunking sound coming from a room nearby. He’d call it the living room, but he can’t be sure this is actually Sherlock’s room, can’t be sure that he’s actually in 221B, not after the bizarre things that have happened to him over the past few days, and not after he’d been so sure 221B had disappeared.

 

He holds his breath and listens, his heart beating so loud in his ears he can barely make out the sounds he hears, but when he concentrates, he realizes that he hears very familiar voices. Before he even decides to do it, he’s throwing the duvet off of himself and standing on shaky legs clad in his own familiar, worn pajamas, adrenaline making up for his exhaustion and lack of strength.

 

He goes to the doorway of this room, _Sherlock’s_ room, and opens the door. Slowly, silently, he pads out into the familiar hallway, his eyes wide and his limbs unstable. He feels as though he can barely stand up, and he can’t let himself believe the voices he hears are real, and yet –

 

He stands frozen in the doorway of the living room, his eyes wide. Sherlock is lying on the couch with his long pipe, his blue dressing gown pooling around him. He’s watching Mycroft in lazy irritation, and Mycroft sits primly in Sherlock’s armchair ranting angrily. Mrs. Hudson sits in John’s chair, holding an empty tea tray in her lap as her eyes flutter between Sherlock and Mycroft. No one seems to notice him, he thinks.

 

“Oi! John!”

 

_Billy_ , John realizes, relief flooding him. He looks at the mantle where Billy sits and he swallows shakily, his legs threatening to give out. He doesn’t _understand_. Sherlock stands up like a shot, abandoning his pipe on the table and going to John’s side.

 

“John!” Sherlock says. “You should be resting, you – are you alright? “ Sherlock puts his hands frantically on John’s arms, and carefully, he leads him towards the couch. John feels as if he’s entered some strange alternate dimension, and doesn’t discount the possibility. He’s unsure if this is really happening, unsure if he can trust what he sees.

 

Sherlock helps John sit, his hands insistent and gentle and _real_ , and then he sits beside him, staring at John intensely. Redbeard chirps against John’s neck and kisses him, and John blinks, looking at Sherlock.

 

“He was – big,” John says blankly.

 

Sherlock’s brow furrows. “Who, Moriarty?”

 

“I think he means Redbeard, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says.

 

“Mrs. Hudson,” John breathes, his head swiveling to look at her as he remembers shaking her frantically, trying to wake her. “You’re alive.”

 

“Of course she is,” Sherlock says. “We all are. You killed Moriarty.”

 

John blinks again, turning his head again to look at Sherlock. “But you – he said there wasn’t a door, I thought you were–”

 

“He did? Of _course_ he did,” Sherlock says, looking to the side as he thinks for a split second before turning back to John. “John, a door doesn’t always take the form we expect it to. The lake was there, made from the same water you came through from the closet; it was the connection to this flat, the same way we had a connection when we used the urn to get there. He lied to you.”

 

John’s tired and he doesn’t understand, but his body sags in relief, his eyes falling closed. “Sherlock,” he breathes, emotions flooding him; it wasn’t for nothing – Sherlock is _alive_ , here in 221B. Their strange little family is here, and he scrubs a face over his hand, trying to take it all in.

 

Sherlock places a hesitant hand on John’s back, and John takes a shuddering breath, leaning into the touch.

 

“I believe that’s my cue to leave,” Mycroft says suddenly. John doesn’t open his eyes; he doesn’t want to see him, even if he _did_ help.

 

“Yes, thank you, you’ve overstayed your welcome as usual,” Sherlock snipes, and John can’t help the way the corner of his mouth twitches even though he’s still struggling to breathe and understand what’s going on.

 

“Lovely,” Mycroft says. “I’m so glad I have John to thank for having the two of you in my life for eternity. I’m sure it will be…indescribable.”

 

“Shut up, Mycroft. We have eternity to _avoid_ you, now go.”

 

“Eternity?” John mumbles, but Sherlock rubs his hand on his back and shifts closer, his thigh pressing against John’s. John sighs and lets his hand fall from his face, lets his head drop to Sherlock’s shoulder and buries his face in it. He hears Mycroft leave, but he keeps his eyes closed, still trying to process what’s happening.

 

“Is this real?” John asks a moment later, voice muffled.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. His voice is soft. “Yes, John, it’s very real.”

 

“I don’t understand,” John says. He’s tired, so tired.

 

“I know,” Sherlock says. “I’ll explain when you’ve woken up a bit more.”

 

“Here, Love, I’ve made you a cuppa,” Mrs. Hudson says. John lifts his head and squints up at her. He gratefully takes the cup from her, wrapping his hands around its warmth and breathing in the comforting steam.

 

“You’ve certainly had a rough few days of it, hmm?” she asks as she sits down again.

 

“So’ve you,” John mumbles, taking a sip of the tea.

 

“We just slept,” Billy says. “You’re the one who had to fight the madman. Cheers, by the way.”

 

John takes another sip of tea and lets his eyes close as he drinks.

 

“He doesn’t want to talk about that yet,” Sherlock tells Billy. He presses his knee closer to John’s and his thumb starts moving in soothing circles on John’s back. John sighs, holding his warm tea in front of his mouth for a moment, breathing in the scent and feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him. He’s still unsure if this is real, but he’s pleased by the moment just the same, anchored by Sherlock’s comforting touch.

 

“Oh, would you look at the two of you?” Mrs. Hudson coos.

 

“Honestly,” Sherlock says, looking away from John to glare at Mrs. Hudson. “If you’re just going to provide useless commentary, you can go downstairs.”

 

Mrs. Hudson laughs and John opens his eyes to glance at her. She’s looking at Sherlock with a fond smile, and she stands, taking Billy off the mantle.

 

“Let’s give them some time,” Mrs. Hudson tells Billy.

 

“Yeah, yeah, keep it down up here, then,” Billy calls as Mrs. Hudson leaves, Billy tucked up under her arm and girlish, pleased laughter coming from her mouth.

 

The door closes behind them and John and Sherlock are left in silence. It’s strangely anticlimactic, John thinks, to suddenly be back on their couch, surrounded by the familiar detritus of their everyday lives, back to the same banter as usual, the same familiar sounds of the London traffic.

 

“You have questions,” Sherlock says after a moment. His voice is strangely hesitant, and John takes a sip of tea, then leans forward to set his teacup down on the table, Sherlock’s hand drifting off his back as he does so.

 

“Yes,” John says. He sits back, and Sherlock shifts so he’s facing him better.

 

They’re silent for a moment, and John lets his eyes fall closed, lets his head fall back against the couch.

 

“Are you going to ask them?” Sherlock asks after a moment. He sounds impatient.

 

John turns his head and cracks his eyes open to look at Sherlock. He smiles, feeling tired and relieved and fuzzy. “Did you grant my wish?” he asks.

 

Sherlock smiles back. It’s warm and open, and John reaches out blindly for Sherlock’s hand, not daring to take his eyes off Sherlock’s face. He finds it and tangles their fingers together.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. His voice is choked. “I did.”

 

John’s heart speeds up. “Good,” he says. “What’s the cost?”

 

He wonders what it will be; more time as Sherlock’s assistant, like last time?

 

“You paid it already,” Sherlock says. “When you destroyed Moriarty.”

 

John smiles. “Good,” he says. He lets his eyes close again.

 

“Are you very tired?” Sherlock asks. His voice sounds like it’s coming from far away.

 

“Mmm,” John replies. He feels fingertips brush the side of his face, and then he sleeps.

 

\--

 

When John wakes again, he’s still on the couch in 221B. Moonlight is streaming in the windows, and Sherlock is curled up on the couch, his head resting against John’s thigh. John blinks at the sight, his heart clenching as it catches up to him that this is real.

 

Without thinking, he lets his fingers drift through Sherlock’s hair, the soft curls winding themselves around his fingers. Sherlock turns his head suddenly, blinking up at John.

 

“You’re awake,” Sherlock says. His voice is deep and rumbly, and John smiles fondly, knowing Sherlock has been sleeping, too.

 

“So’re you,” John says.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Obviously,” he says.

 

John smiles at him, his heart skipping beat at the sight of this annoying man living and breathing and whole.

 

“You must be hungry,” Sherlock says a moment later, leaning into John’s fingers in his hair.

 

“Starving,” John admits, his eyes trained on Sherlock’s face. “Shall we order something in?”

 

“I’ll order,” Sherlock says. “Why don’t you have a shower?”

 

“Trying to tell me something?” John asks, amused.

 

“No,” Sherlock replies. “But you’d been sleeping for two days before you woke up earlier and you still have dried blood around your nose; I thought you might want one.”

 

John blinks. Two days? Dried blood? “Yeah, I think I’ll have one,” he says.

 

\--

 

When John comes out of the shower, freshly shaved and washed and dressed in new pajamas, he finally feels a bit more clear-headed and like himself. He leans against the doorway to the living room, watching as Sherlock scoops fried rice onto a plate, already laden with John’s other favorites. It smells heavenly; John’s mouth waters as he watches, but he can’t bring himself to walk through the door. He feels as if all of this will disappear if he so much as breathes wrong after everything they’ve been through the past few days.

 

“Are you just going to stand there?” Sherlock asks irritably without looking up from his task.

 

John’s stomach flutters. He’s irrationally pleased to hear Sherlock sniping at him and it settles something inside of him. He pushes himself away from the doorjamb to sit beside Sherlock on the couch, his heart beating fast. He’s very aware of the scant centimeters between his knee and Sherlock’s, of the murky place their relationship has landed in, but he’s too hungry to worry about it yet. He takes the plate Sherlock all but shoves in his hands and begins to eat, forcing himself to go slowly rather than just inhale it like he very much wants to do.

 

Sherlock is quiet beside him, picking at his own share, though John can feel him watching him with a curious and intent expression that would make John a lot more uncomfortable if he weren’t so hungry. Once John has finished most of his food, he takes a drink of water, then takes a deep breath, feeling much more comfortable.

 

“Moriarty – he’s really gone?” he asks after a moment.

 

Sherlock looks up at him, his eyes open and serious. “Yes,” he says. “Body and soul. The spirits were very…thorough.”

 

John shudders, not wanting to imagine it. “And you – were you there the whole time? In his house?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “I was in the tunnels first, of course. The tunnels exist in the astral plane, John. No one could have gone there besides you or I.”

 

“But Moriarty went there,” John says.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “You know that my magic is restricted to granting wishes, for the most part, but I also have the rather unique ability to move through dimensions and help other people do so as well. Moriarty forced me to take us there and wait for you.”

 

“How did he force you?” John asks, his eyes searching Sherlock’s face for some reassurance that he’s alright.

 

“The alternative was unacceptable,” Sherlock says stiffly. Before John can reply, Sherlock continues, clearly unwilling to visit the topic further. “Even so, it’s very dangerous, visiting the astral plane with your actual body, like you just did. The times you’ve visited before have been with just your mind, and that’s much safer; if you had strayed off the path with your body, you may not have been able to leave. It’s good that you had Redbeard there to help you.”

 

John furrows his brow as he listens, vivid memories of the tunnels flashing through his mind. “Good thing,” he agrees, remembering how Redbeard had urged him towards the door after Sherlock had disappeared. “And what about Redbeard? I didn’t know he could do that.”

 

“It takes a lot of energy for him to transform like that, so he doesn’t do it often,” Sherlock says. He gestures to the pillow on John’s chair, where Redbeard is curled up and sleeping. “He’ll rest for a while to recover. I told you he’s very special. Mycroft used to tell me I let him transform too much when I was little. It’s why he took him away.”

 

John stares at the little creature. He remembers how strange it had been at first to have him wrapped around his wrist or his neck, how he sometimes felt annoyed by his presence, and how much he now comes to rely on him. His heart aches at the thought of Sherlock losing him as a child. “I don’t blame you for keeping him big sometimes. He’s quite something, isn’t he?”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, next question,” he says.

 

John snorts. “Right, okay,” he says, unfazed by Sherlock’s dismissal of the topic. He turns towards Sherlock, thinking back to the tunnels. “When Moriarty took you away from me there, in the tunnels –” He pauses, the panic that had overtaken him in the tunnels flashing back to him as he thinks about it. He clears his throat, his hand clenching around his fork. “He took you back to his house?”

 

“Yes,” he says again. “He locked me in a room, a cell of sorts, where I couldn’t use any magic.”

 

John frowns. “How’d you get out, then?” he asks.

 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says, wrinkling his nose. “When you brought the spirits out of the forest, Mycroft could sense the disturbance in the energy. He figured out what was happening, and he could safely pass through the forest since the spirits left. You are the only one besides Moriarty who’s made it through, John. Not even Mycroft or I could have gone through unaided before now, with the spirits under Moriarty’s thumb as they were.”

 

John’s unsure of how to take that; although he understands now that he has a place in the strange world Sherlock belongs to, it’s still unsettling to think of how much power he wields. He eats instead of thinking about it too deeply, and Sherlock continues.

 

“Mycroft got hold of you when you collapsed, then searched for me and freed me. Once I escaped the room, I was free to grant your wish, and here we are.”

 

It seems so simple now, though it was anything but, and John frowns in thought, eating more of his chicken. “And Greg?” he asks, suddenly remembering Sherlock telling him that Greg was dead.

 

“Ah,” Sherlock says. He sets his plate down and steeples his hands underneath his chin, eyeing John speculatively. John sighs; he knows a strange answer will probably be forthcoming, and a mixture of fondness and irritation builds inside of him. Fondness wins out easily at the familiar way Sherlock scrutinizes him, though, and John patiently waits for Sherlock to speak, his heart beating quickly at the feeling of Sherlock’s eyes on him.

 

“Greg has been dead for quite some time,” Sherlock says after a moment has passed. “At least fifty years. He was born here, in London, though he was never quite like other mortals. I knew him well when he was alive.”

 

John frowns, his brow furrowing. He swallows the food in his mouth and stares at Sherlock, sure he heard that wrong. “Sorry – what?”

 

“I’m much older than I have any right to be,” Sherlock says. He speaks gently.

 

“Um,” John says ineloquently. “Okay. And how old - ”

 

“One hundred and ten,” Sherlock says. “I was born in the other world, the world where Mycroft lives. When I was young, I lived there, but we had a house here, too. Our parents – they wanted us to experience both worlds; the spirit world, and the mortal one.”

 

_The mortal one_ , John thinks. He blinks. “Your parents – they’re - ”

 

“They live in the spirit world, too,” Sherlock says. “They’re still alive, but they’re dreadfully boring; I don’t like to visit them. They don’t approve of me living down here all the time, anyway.”

 

“And you – _why_ do you live down here?”

 

Sherlock smiles at him. It’s gentle, so gentle, and John feels his heart speed up. “John,” he says. “When I wished for you to live, I was thirty-two years old, and I’ve stayed thirty-two in every way that matters since then.”

 

“That was – that was almost eighty years ago,” John says. He sets his plate down; his hands are shaking.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time. It was a bit lonely, to be honest, so I created Mrs. Hudson and Billy.”

 

John looks at him, his mouth slightly open. “You - ”

 

“It wasn’t hard,” Sherlock says, shrugging. “Not for me, anyway. The process is actually quite fascinating; I’ll have to explain –”

 

“You waited here for me all that time?” John asks, unable to focus on Mrs. Hudson and Billy while he tries to process everything else Sherlock is telling him.

 

Sherlock hesitates, then gives a clipped nod, his eyes trained somewhere to the left of John. “Yes,” he says. He sounds defensive.

 

John swallows shakily and blinks a few times, his heart racing. His stomach twists. “Thank you,” he says, his voice rough. He wants to say so much more; he knows these words aren’t anywhere near adequate, but he’s stunned, unable to express his gratitude.

 

Sherlock shakes his head and swallows. His hand hovers on the couch near John’s, and John itches to cross the distance between them, but he doesn’t. “There’s no need to thank me,” Sherlock says. “It never occurred to me that what I’m about to say could ever be a possibility, but I now believe that you would have done the same for me if our circumstances were reversed,” he adds after a moment, his words a fast, nervous rush. He’s still not looking at John.

 

“Of course I would have done,” John says immediately, his voice raw, stunned by how sure he is of his answer as the possibilities of a life without Sherlock bloom in his mind, possibilities that have recently seemed all too real.

 

Sherlock looks up at him with a hesitant smile, and then looks away, a flush of embarrassment on his cheeks, before turning back and clearing his throat. “When you made your wish, you wished for me to remain at your side until I am grey and old and I die of natural causes.”

 

John flushes. “Yes,” he says. It’s much different, he thinks, to talk about this now while they’re both safe and out of harm’s way than it is to say in the heat of the moment while he’s terrified of losing Sherlock forever, even if the sentiment remains the same.

 

Sherlock smiles. “You really are very clever, John, don’t you see?”

 

John shakes his head. “I really don’t.”

 

“I’m a spiritual being; I won’t die of natural causes. I won’t be grey and old. Therefore, neither will you. You wished to stay with me until something impossible happens. We have eternity, quite literally, thanks to your wish.”

 

“But that’s –”

 

“It’s fate, John, don’t you see?”

 

John shakes his head, and Sherlock’s eyes light up. “The first time I saw you in my vision, you couldn’t see your importance; spirits were attracted to you, but you didn’t care. You let them overtake you. You faded into unimportance and died.”

 

“Then why did you even wish for me to live?” John asks.

 

“Because I saw an _alternative_ , John,” he replies, gesturing wildly, “an alternative where you were the most remarkable man I’d ever known; the ideal man, in every way, the wisest, bravest, and kindest man I had ever seen. And so I wished for you to live so that man could come to fruition because, quite selfishly, I wanted him in my life,” Sherlock says in a passionate rush.

 

John swallows, his fingers flexing, his stomach fluttering. “But - ”

 

“I wished for you to live, John, and as a result, your power became much stronger because in order for my wish to come true, you _had_ to be exceptionally strong, don’t you see? It’s fate.”

 

“How –”

 

“I wished for you to realize your importance, and because my wish was granted, you created a world in which you had the power to defeat Moriarty because _that’s_ the importance you needed. And that is the same importance ordinary mortals shouldn’t be born with, the same importance that ensured my wish was granted, the same importance that made you capable of negating Moriarty’s claim on my life. It’s a cycle, John, and your perfectly clever wish sealed it all,” Sherlock says, staring at John with excitement and passion that John can’t latch onto just yet.

 

“I don’t really get it,” John admits.  

 

Sherlock sighs but he stares at John with intensity before he speaks again, clearly attempting to think of an easier way to explain. “I wished into existence a vision I saw that could have been real or could have been fantasy – there’s no way of knowing, not when you’re divining your own future. Either way, I wished you into existence, John, and I wished into existence the very power that would break Moriarty’s hold over me and rid this world of him – he is _filth_ , John – and thus in wishing for you, I wished for freedom from the payment of my wish without realizing what I was doing, and you, in wishing for me, freed us _both_ , and granted both of our wishes. Really, if I think about it now, it’s so _simple_ \- there’s no way you could have lost against Moriarty; it would have defied the magic of the wishes. Our fate has been sealed since long before you were born, and now, we’re here, finally. It’s brilliant, isn’t it? I couldn’t see it all until after we spoke on the roof – or the astral version of it, anyway, but now that I can see it, it’s just so _elegant,_ John.”

 

John blinks. “I still don’t really understand entirely,” he says, ignoring the way Sherlock rolls his eyes. “But we – am I – not mortal, then?”

 

“Correct,” Sherlock says, nodding. “But don’t be careless, John, you can still die if you’re stupid.”

 

“Right,” John says. “Okay.”

 

And then, the absurdity of it all catches up to him and helpless giggles bubble up his throat. After a moment, Sherlock giggles with him, and John remembers precisely why he fought so hard to keep Sherlock alive in the first place. They’re side by side laughing, and then they sneak a glance at each other and only laugh harder. John shifts on the couch, moving until he’s close to Sherlock, and after a moment, when their laughter has settled, he reaches up and carefully cups Sherlock’s face with his hand, his eyes still sparkling with laughter, the ghost of his smile still lingering on his face. Sherlock leans into the touch, his eyes drifting half-closed as he stares at John.

 

“I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time,” Sherlock says. His voice is soft and deep, and John feels a shiver work its way down his spine, unable to look away from Sherlock. “I thought just a few months with you would be enough, but they weren’t. That’s why, when you were with Arthur, I went to Moriarty. I tried to change the terms of the wish, but of course, I couldn’t. When Moriarty came for me, I wasn’t – I didn’t know how hard it would be to leave,” he admits, shifting his head the tiniest bit against John’s hand, his eyes never leaving John’s. “But then, I never knew – I knew you were exceptional, John. I knew I had to know you. But I didn’t know it would feel like this. I never knew _anything_ could feel like this.”

 

John looks at him, his heart beating light and fast. “Sherlock,” he says. “You –”

 

He thinks of what Sherlock told him, that Sherlock wished them into existence, that _John_ wished them into existence, and it doesn’t make sense but it _does_ , somewhere deep, deep inside of him. He swallows and then clears his throat. “Every day you meant more to me,” he says, his voice choked. “And you – you _knew_ , you knew you’d have to–”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, cutting him off. “But just knowing you, John – just knowing you and knowing you were happy was so much; I never dared wish for more – and in the end, no, in the _beginning_ , we’re here, aren’t we? Because you're brave, because you _did_ wish for more.”

 

“It’s only thanks to you,” John murmurs, overcome. His eyes flicker over Sherlock’s face, taking in his half-lidded eyes, the planes of his angular cheeks, his lips, flushed and parted. He swallows, his throat dry, their faces closer together than they’ve ever been. They’ve come so far, he thinks, and yet they haven’t done _this_ , and it seems somehow monumental in its simplicity. He strokes his thumb along Sherlock’s cheekbone and his breath hitches as Sherlock shifts forward, resting his hand on John’s hip. Desire sweeps over John’s skin, coils in his stomach.

 

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, voice low and pleading.

 

John leans forward and gently, reverently, he lets his lips press against Sherlock’s. It’s quiet in the flat, and John lets the familiar quietness wash over him for a moment as the new feeling of Sherlock’s lips against his own sinks into him, somehow earth-shaking in its intensity even though it’s just a gentle press of lips. He feels something deep in his stomach twist, feels his heart flutter in his chest. He relishes the feeling of Sherlock’s curls beneath his fingers, feels his own ribs expand beneath the warmth of Sherlock’s palm. Their lips open to each other, warm air shared between them, the soft sounds of their breaths and mouths weaving into the atmosphere of the flat. John shifts closer until their chests are flush against each other, the taste of Sherlock’s lips heady and sublime and _real_.

 

John pulls away for a moment but can’t bring himself to go far. He keeps his hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck to hold Sherlock’s head in place and he gazes up at him, their faces inches apart, so close that he can see the flecks of gold near Sherlock’s pupils, can count his eyelashes, see every flake of skin on his lips.

 

“I thought I lost you,” John murmurs. “You – ”

 

Sherlock lowers his head until his forehead is resting against John’s. It’s intimate, startlingly so, even after they’ve just kissed. Sherlock’s hand drifts beneath John’s vest, his palm warm against the bare skin of John’s back, and he brings the other up to cup John’s head. “You’ll never lose me,” he promises, his voice hushed, his words drifting over John’s lips like a kiss. “We were born for each other, quite literally. It’s fact, John.”

 

John’s stomach flutters and then they’re kissing again, faces already so close that they barely need to move to find each other. Their lips press together for a moment, slow and sweet, and John feels as if he’s cracking open, somehow, but it’s not unpleasant. In fact, it makes him shift closer, makes him open his mouth to Sherlock’s, makes his thumb smooth back and forth over Sherlock’s skin, makes his heart constrict in his chest.

 

“John,” Sherlock breathes, pulling away. He looks at John with an uncertainty in his eyes that makes John furrow his brow and keep his hand strong on Sherlock’s neck to keep him from retreating.

 

“Mmm?” John replies, stroking Sherlock’s cheek with his thumb, hoping to reassure him. His heart beats fast in his chest, worry beginning to tug at his mind.

 

“If you – what you wished, if you have any – perhaps, when you wished you didn’t realize it would be – it’s a long time–”

 

“Stop that,” John says gently as he realizes why Sherlock seems concerned. “Does it look like I have any second thoughts?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes flicker over John’s face, but he doesn’t look convinced. When he speaks, his voice is a calm murmur, but the urgency in his eyes betrays his tone. “Isn’t it a bit much to suddenly learn that your life expectancy has increased exponentially? And that you’re tied to me for the duration of it?”

 

“Don’t be thick,” John says. His heart flutters in his chest and he’s sure once the shock of this all wears off he’ll have questions and fears and worries, but he has no doubt that this is the best thing that could have happened to him. He’s overwhelmingly happy to have Sherlock here, to touch him like this, to be close to him. John feels nervous; they haven’t talked about this, there are so many things he doesn’t understand – but being with Sherlock is astonishingly simple and _right_. His eyes linger on Sherlock’s mouth before flickering back up to his eyes and he smiles, welcoming the fear that flutters in his stomach. “You’re the one who can see people’s wishes, and you’ve seen mine.”

 

Sherlock seems like he’s going to say something, but he stops himself, looking at John with a soft expression John’s unaccustomed to seeing. “You truly are exceptional, John,” he tells him instead.

 

John’s lips curl into a small smile and then he kisses Sherlock in response, sighing into the kiss when Sherlock presses gently against John’s back with his palm, pulling John closer. John slides his hand under Sherlock’s pajama shirt, lets his fingers drift over the smooth skin of Sherlock’s side, opens his mouth, lets his tongue slide into Sherlock’s mouth as Sherlock shivers and loses the rhythm of the kiss for a moment.

 

John takes advantage of his distraction and deepens the kiss. He trails his fingers down Sherlock’s spine and back up again, basking in the way Sherlock’s breath hitches and his spine arches subtly. He sweeps his hand up Sherlock’s side again, Sherlock’s flesh and bones warm and real under his fingers, and lets his thumb rub over Sherlock’s nipple. Sherlock gasps and John presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then lets his thumb rub over the hard nub again, his other hand twisted into Sherlock’s hair, and he kisses beneath Sherlock’s ear with a hot open mouth.

 

“John,” Sherlock says, his voice breathy. “Oh god–”

 

“You’re brilliant,” John murmurs, his lips just below the shell of Sherlock’s ear. Gently, so gently, he kisses him again, lets his nose brush against Sherlock’s cheek. “I love you,” he murmurs, his voice soft, barely a whisper, and he hadn’t meant to say it, he really hadn’t, but after everything that’s happened, feeling this man pliant and alive in his arms right now is everything to him, and he shifts to press a warm, open mouthed kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “I thought you were dead,” he says a moment later, the words soft in the warm air between their mouths, his heart beating fast and panicked, his breath hitching. “Christ, Sherlock, I thought you were dead.”

 

“I’m not,” Sherlock says, hushed. He swallows, the sound loud in the quiet of the flat. “John, I’m not,” he repeats, his fingers soothing John’s lower back in small, insistent motions. John presses closer and lets his head fall into the crook of Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock’s hand immediately comes up to cradle it, his long fingers running through John’s short hair. John breathes him in, his own fingers still winding into Sherlock’s curls.

 

After a moment, Sherlock urges John’s head up, and John is surprised to see the look of intent on Sherlock’s face.

 

“John Hamish Watson, born thirty-first March,” Sherlock says. His eyes are focused raptly on John’s and his thumb soothes over John’s cheekbone, a mirror of the way John had looked at him only moments earlier. John’s heart speeds up; he feels as if Sherlock is casting a spell though he’s only said his name, and John can’t look away; he is quiet and still under Sherlock’s gaze.

 

“I couldn’t tell you in the beginning,” Sherlock says a moment later. His voice is hushed. “I wanted to, so many times, but it would have been dangerous if you knew.”

 

John swallows, though his mouth feels dry. “Tell me what?” he murmurs, hyperaware of every point of contact between them.

 

Sherlock smiles. It’s soft, small. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he murmurs. “Born sixth January.”

 

John blinks, confusion settling over him. “Er – what?” he asks.

 

Sherlock’s smiling at him, looking at him like he is a treasure. “Don’t you remember, John, the very first time we met?” His voice is soft and his thumb continues to stroke over John’s face. “I told you it was dangerous for spirits to know your full name and your birthday. It’s a pathway to the deepest parts of you; your soul, your heart. I’ve always known yours, but there was no need for you to know mine, or so I thought. But there it is, the whole of it.”

 

John smiles, though he can’t help the laugh that bubbles up his throat and he looks away for a moment, shocked by the apparent non-sequitur but at the same time, recognizing it for what it is. He turns back, a heady feeling washing over him, his vision the tiniest bit blurry. “Should I start calling you Will, then?” he asks, his voice low and a bit choked, a smile he can’t contain stretching over his lips.

 

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock says dismissively, though the bite in his words is softened by the way the corners of his lips twitch.

 

John smiles and pulls Sherlock down for a kiss again, soft, open-mouthed, sweet. When he pulls away, Sherlock chases his lips with his own and presses one last chaste kiss on the corner of John’s mouth. He keeps his head there a moment, eyes closed, lips tantalizingly close to John’s. “I love you,” he breathes. His voice is barely a whisper and he’s not looking at John, but John hears it deep inside of him. He swallows, his heart beating fast.

 

John tilts his head until he finds Sherlock’s mouth again. He kisses him, slow and soft and gentle, a different kiss than the ones they’ve already shared. Sherlock slides his hand up the back of John’s shirt again and John shifts closer to Sherlock, rubs his thumb over Sherlock’s nipple again, feels Sherlock gasp open-mouthed into their kiss, and he breaks away, breathing heavily.

 

“Sherlock,” John says. He’s aware of little more than the feeling of Sherlock’s long fingers against his back, Sherlock’s ribs under his palm, Sherlock’s face so blessedly close to his own. He’s suddenly overcome by _want;_ he wants more than anything to see Sherlock come undone, to take him apart, to know every part of him, to celebrate him, to worship him, to taste him, to have him, to be with him. “Let’s go to bed. Please,” he manages, desperation swirling inside of him.

 

Sherlock’s breath hitches. His eyes, half-lidded and warm, flicker to John’s lips and back up to his eyes. He takes John’s free hand in his own and holds it against his cheek for a moment, turns his head, kisses his palm. John shifts his hand and weaves his fingers into Sherlock’s, and Sherlock holds their hands there, against his cheek.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “Please.” His voice is low and soft, and John stares at him, breathless.

 

John kisses him, long and slow, squeezing Sherlock’s fingers before gently pulling his hand away. He slides his hands under Sherlock’s shirt and lets his fingers caress Sherlock’s skin, feels the tantalizing arch of Sherlock’s spine, treasures the gasp he’s rewarded with when he runs his fingers up and down Sherlock’s sides.

 

John breaks the kiss and pulls up on the hem of Sherlock’s shirt, working with Sherlock pull it over his head, his throat growing dry as he watches more and more of Sherlock’s smooth, porcelain skin come into view. He tosses the shirt away as soon as he can and kisses Sherlock again, hungrily, his hands eagerly caressing the smooth planes of Sherlock’s back, touching as much skin as he can, almost frantic in his desire.

 

“John,” Sherlock says, pulling away. He tugs on John’s shirt and John lets him, helps him get it over his head, and then they’re kissing again, the bare skin of their chests finally pressing together. It’s exhilarating and John finds himself kissing harder, pressing his tongue, warm and slick, against Sherlock’s. The feeling is exquisite; he feels it down to his bones and he’s eager for more. Breathy noises come from his throat he’s not even conscious of making.

 

Sherlock pulls away, breathless, and stands. John eagerly follows, reaching up to kiss him again even though he has to push up on his toes to reach him properly. Sherlock ducks his head and their kiss deepens, and John can’t help but groan, pressing his hips against Sherlock’s, curling his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. He takes a step backwards, urging Sherlock with him, doing his best not to break the kiss, and Sherlock follows. Clumsily, they make their way to the hallway, kissing as they go, breaking apart in surprise when John’s back thuds into the wall.   John giggles, pulling Sherlock’s head down for a kiss. He leans against the wall for a moment and savors the feeling of Sherlock’s body against his. He moans when he feels Sherlock’s hardness pressing against his hip, and he can’t help but twist his hips, pressing himself against Sherlock. Sherlock gasps, a low, breathy sound.

 

John wants to hear it over and over and over. He shifts and tugs on Sherlock’s hand until he can pull him down the hallway to the bedroom. John pulls him inside, their fingers laced together, and Sherlock follows, cups John’s face as soon as they’re standing beside the bed, ducks his head down for a kiss. John kisses him back and the feeling of Sherlock’s skin beneath his hands is intoxicating, but he pulls away from the kiss, winding his fingers into Sherlock’s hair to keep him close. “You’re stunning,” John murmurs, eyes sweeping over Sherlock’s cheeks, flushed with desire. Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed and he kisses John again, short and sweet.

 

John swallows shakily but doesn’t move away after the kiss. “Are you – is this –”

 

“I’ve waited nearly all my life for this,” Sherlock says. His eyes are still closed, his face turned down towards John’s, his lips so close they brush the corner of John’s mouth when he speaks.

 

John closes his eyes and feels love crash over him, strong and terrifying and exhilarating. He _wants,_ god he wants. He tilts his head up and kisses Sherlock hard, twisting his hips against Sherlock’s, gasping when Sherlock’s hips meet his. He groans, lets his fingers smooth down Sherlock’s back until they dip into the waistband of his pajamas. Sherlock shifts his hips, urging John to continue, and John doesn’t hesitate; he pulls down Sherlock’s trousers and pants all in one motion, lets Sherlock reach down to do the same to him.

 

They press their hips together again, the barrier of clothing removed from between them, and John moans into the kiss, eager for more, his nerve endings on fire at the touch of Sherlock’s cock to his own. He urges Sherlock down on the bed, and Sherlock sits on the edge, then shuffles back until he’s lying down, propped up on his elbows near the pillows so he can look at John.

 

“You’re gorgeous,” John says, choked, his eyes traveling over Sherlock’s body, taking in the smooth, pale skin interrupted only by the occasional mole or freckle. John wants to connect all the dots with his tongue, wants to taste every inch, wants to find every spot that makes Sherlock moan and writhe, wants the cock that lies hard against Sherlock’s belly, wants _everything_.

 

Sherlock looks up at him, hesitant, and John crawls onto the bed, keeping his eyes locked with Sherlock’s as he straddles him, shifting forward until their faces are just inches apart and propping himself up on his arms, planted on either side of Sherlock. Sherlock reaches up and cups John’s head with one hand, the other still propping himself up, and John carefully settles his weight on Sherlock’s hips, stretching his legs out, pressing them against Sherlock’s and relaxing when Sherlock doesn’t seem bothered by his weight. “Alright?” John murmurs, eyes flickering back and forth between Sherlock’s.

 

Sherlock swallows. “John,” he says. His eyes are wide, and he’s looking at John like he’s not real

 

John shifts forward and brings their hips into alignment. Sherlock’s head tips back and he moans, and John puts one hand behind Sherlock’s head to take his weight, and with the other, he pulls on Sherlock’s supporting arm, urging him flat down on the bed. Sherlock acquiesces, and John kisses him, pressing him into the mattress.

 

The feeling of Sherlock beneath him is divine, unlike anything he could ever imagine. Sherlock moans and John thrusts against him, hot desire rolling over him in waves. He trails kisses along Sherlock’s jaw, eager to taste him, and stops at his ear, nipping the lobe. He twists his hips forward helplessly when Sherlock moans and tilts his head to give John access to his neck.

 

John kisses just below Sherlock’s ear, tasting the skin there, gasping when Sherlock shifts beneath him, spreading his legs, making John settle between them. Sherlock hooks one leg around John’s, his heel pressing behind John’s kneecap, and John groans when the movement presses their cocks together. He goes back to Sherlock’s mouth and kisses him hard, both of them thrusting toward each other, friction building hot and delicious between them, though the movements are too shallow to be what they need.

 

“John,” Sherlock gasps when John breaks away from the kiss. John looks at him, at his flushed cheeks and wet mouth, and desire swims through his veins, makes it feel like the bottom drops out of his stomach. He shifts down and kisses the base of Sherlock’s neck, licks along his collarbone, the salty sweat of Sherlock’s skin like heaven on his tongue.

 

He tastes the skin of Sherlock’s shoulder, breathes warm and humid against it when Sherlock’s arms come up to wrap around him, then shifts down to lick his nipple, swirling his tongue around it. Sherlock moans and arches his back, pressing up against John’s mouth, heel sliding up the back of John’s thigh, cock pressing insistently against John. John flicks his tongue against Sherlock’s nipple, gently bites it with his teeth. Sherlock moans again, helpless and loud, and thrusts his hips up, his hard cock jutting against John’s stomach.

 

John is overwhelmed by the sounds Sherlock is making, by how good this feels, by _everything_. He reaches between them, and though it’s an awkward angle, he wraps a hand around Sherlock’s cock, moves it up and down, and bites gently on Sherlock’s nipple again as Sherlock groans, louder than before, his head tilting back.

 

“John,” Sherlock groans. “John, too – it’s too –”

 

John sweeps his tongue along Sherlock’s nipple once more, presses a soft kiss against it, shits to kiss the base of his neck. He kisses under Sherlock’s jaw, lets out a shaky breath against his cheek, keeps moving his hand up and down Sherlock’s cock. He hovers over Sherlock, planting the elbow of his free arm beside Sherlock’s head, and Sherlock looks up at him with half-lidded eyes, breathing fast, his cheeks flushed. John moves his hand faster on Sherlock’s cock and Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed, his hips thrusting desperately to meet John’s hand. John groans at the look on Sherlock’s face, his own cock desperate for attention, and he cups Sherlock’s head and kisses him, open and hot and wet.

 

Sherlock kisses back desperately, pressing his tongue insistently against John’s, moaning into the kiss as his hips buck under John’s hand. His leg tightens around John’s hips, and then Sherlock shifts his arm, brings his own hand down between them. He laces his fingers through John’s but shifts their grip, encompassing John’s cock and his own in his long fingers.   John shudders and groans into the kiss, his arm shaking under his weight, overwhelmed by the feeling of Sherlock’s hand on him. He gasps open mouthed against Sherlock’s lips as pleasure washes over him. Urgency coils in his stomach and he groans helplessly when Sherlock’s thumb brushes over the head of his cock.

 

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John gasps. “So good, so good, like that,” he babbles. He kisses him again, clumsily, kisses his jaw, his cheekbone. They’re both thrusting and moaning and gasping and it’s messy and clumsy, but it’s perfect. One of Sherlock’s hands clutches John’s back, fingers pressing hard into John’s shoulder, and the other is wrapped around his cock, and John tangles his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, kisses him again, cherishes the feeling of closeness.

 

“Sherlock,” he breathes desperately against Sherlock’s lips as they separate from the kiss, sparks of pleasure making his toes curl, making it feel like his insides are on fire. He’s close, _so_ close, and he can tell Sherlock is, too. Sherlock’s making desperate breathy sounds beneath him, and then his leg tightens around John’s waist, and a helpless moan tears from Sherlock’s throat. John’s pleasure peaks and coils in his stomach when he hears it, when he sees the way Sherlock’s face contorts in ecstasy, mouth falling open, eyes squeezing shut as his head tilts back and he comes. It’s beautiful and it pulls John under, his body going taut, pleasure washing over him in waves as he collapses against Sherlock. Warmth surges between their bodies, Sherlock’s leg presses their groins together and John sees stars, isn’t aware of anything until he realizes he’s pressed his face into Sherlock’s neck, that he’s panting, that Sherlock is trembling.

 

Still panting, boneless with pleasure, he shifts onto his side, tugging Sherlock along with him. Sherlock follows willingly, his long limbs wrapping around John immediately. Sherlock kisses him, soft and sweet and uncoordinated. He’s still trembling. John runs his fingers up and down Sherlock’s back and pulls away, swallowing shakily, his heart still pounding.

 

“Sherlock,” he murmurs, watching him carefully, tenderly.

 

Sherlock opens his eyes and they’re glassy. He reaches up and strokes John’s cheek with a shaking hand. “John,” Sherlock replies. His voice is raw and his eyes flicker between John’s.

 

“Alright?” John asks, shifting closer, pressing as much of his skin as he can against Sherlock, brushing a curl away from his temple, still amazed to be this close to him.

 

Sherlock swallows. The sound is loud in the quiet bedroom, and John presses another soft, chaste kiss against his lips, strokes his cheek, lets their noses brush together. He thinks of the moonlight dancing over Sherlock’s face, of Sherlock smoking his pipe, of Sherlock’s pinky pressed against his around the handle of a lantern.

 

“I love you,” John says again. It seems so obvious to him now that they would end up like this, that they would be tangled together in Sherlock’s bed, naked and sated and scared and elated.

 

Sherlock makes a sound not unlike distress and shifts forward, eyes closed, pressing his lips against John’s. He doesn’t open his mouth, just holds his lips there, slotted against John’s, until John realizes Sherlock’s shoulders are shaking.

 

John gently pulls him away, sees that his mouth is beginning to twist, and wraps his arms around him, pulling him close.

 

They don’t speak for a moment, just lie together, and John breathes in the scent of Sherlock’s hair, tangles his fingers in it, lets his other hand stroke up and down Sherlock’s back, tangles their legs together, presses kisses against Sherlock’s hair, cherishes him, worships him.

 

Sherlock pulls away after a moment, but he doesn’t go far; he keeps their faces close together, so close John can feel his breath, warm against his own lips.

 

“I waited for you for so long,” Sherlock tells him again. His voice is hushed and intimate and it cracks on the end of his words.

 

“So did I,” John murmurs. “Even if I never knew what I was waiting for.”

 

Sherlock smiles a small, fleeting smile. “I thought I would die,” he says.

 

“I know,” John breathes, his throat constricting. He can’t stop stroking Sherlock’s face, can’t look away from his eyes, can’t shift even a millimeter away from his body.

 

“I didn’t want to leave you.” His voice breaks.

 

“I know,” John repeats, his own voice choked. He kisses him again.

 

“‘The present world is dream. Dreams at night are truth,’” Sherlock murmurs when they pull away. A small smile is on his lips, though his eyes are red and the smile is shaky.

 

“What –”

 

Sherlock shakes his head gently. “Can’t you see? You’ve made the present world truth, John Hamish Watson.”

 

John’s heart flutters. “No,” he murmurs. “ _We_ have.”

 

“We,” Sherlock agrees. Their lips meet in a kiss again, the feeling incandescent. “It was inevitable, all this time.”

 

John thinks of all they’ve been through, and all that lies ahead of them. He thinks of everything Sherlock’s done for him, and everything he’s done in return. He thinks of the fear and desperation he’d felt when Sherlock was gone, of the relief that crashed into him when he found Sherlock once more. He thinks of how it all swirls together into what he feels for Sherlock, an emotion that can’t be encompassed by a single word or experience or even universe.

 

“I was so lonely for so long,” John says, his voice nearly a whisper. “And so were you. And now here we are, together.” He swallows, nearly overcome, grounded by the feeling of Sherlock’s fingers stroking up and down his spine, by the sight of Sherlock’s eyes gazing into his own.

 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” John breathes a moment later, a small smile on his lips, an echoing one on Sherlock’s. He strokes the side of Sherlock’s face, feels as if the two of them are wrapped in a blanket of magic, gratitude sweeping over him for everything that’s happened in his life before this moment because it’s all brought him here, even if he couldn’t see it at the time.

 

He smiles, soft and warm and affectionate. “Inevitable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all! The end of this story has finally come! I'd love to know what you thought of it, and I hope you enjoyed reading it. It was fun to write, though it admittedly took me a lot longer than I expected. :)
> 
> Feel free to [follow me on tumblr](http://slashscribe.tumblr.com) to see when I post new stories, or just to bask in the glory of johnlock with me. <3
> 
> Anyway, thanks again for reading! Like I said, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this!


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